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*0W0# 


A  HERO, 

BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS, 
ALICE  LEARMONT. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR  OF 


'JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN,"    "A    NOBLE    LIFE,' 

"CHRISTIAN'S  MISTAKE,"  "TWO  MARRIAGES," 

"A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE,"  "OLIVE," 

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GIFf 

[M 


C887 
.JW 
1870 


A  HERO. 

BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

ALICE  LEARMONT. 


M3541G9 


INTRODUCTION. 


"  A  HERO,  my  nephews  ?"  echoed  Uncle  Philip, 
stealing  in  upon  a  conclave  that  was  "being  held  tc 
decide  the  merits  of  a  "  fellow,"  who  was  universally 
considered  the  head  of  the  school — in  fighting  at  least. 
"Pray,  my  good  lads,  what  do  you  mean  by  '  a  Hero  ?' " 

His  nephews  were  silent.  Probably  they  thought 
Captain  Philip  Carew  was  the  person  best  fitted  to 
answer  his  own  question.  For  though  not  yet  forty 
years  of  age,  he  had  been  bronzed  in  the  Tropics, 
frozen  in  the  Arctic  Seas,  had  led  forlorn-hopes  in 
China,  and  commanded  Pacific  expeditions  to  the 
South  Seas,  and  finally  had  returned,  invalided  by  a 
shot  on  the  field  of  Moultan  in  India.  He  had  gone 
through  many  tribulations  of  divers  kinds,  yet  he  was 
still  a  handsor,  le-looking  fellow,  with  more  brains  and 
more  heart  than  nine-tenths  of  mankind,  even  though 
he  was  a  soldier. 

He  repeated  his  question,  "Pray,  what  is  a  Hero?'; 

Still  no  answer. 


ri  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Get  the  dictionary  !"  said  Uncle  Philip.  He  look- 
ed  out  the  word.  "  Hero,  a  great  man  !  Short  and 
terse,  truly.  Now  boys,  define  that :  '  A  Hero,  viz., 
A  G-reat  Man.' " 

A  few  tried  to  do  it ;  but  nobody  gave  a  clear  reply. 

"  You  are  all  puzzled  ?  No  wonder.  That  samo 
definition  has  puzzled  the  worid  ever  since  it  was  a 
world.  I  myself  racked  my  poor  brains  on  the  subject 
for  three  whole  months.  But  I  think  I  solved  the 
question  at  last." 

"  How,  uncle  ?"  some  one  ventured  to  ask. 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  a  long  story.  It  happened  many 
years  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy." 

It  was  a  magic  beginning,  "  When  I  was  a  boy." 
Young  people  do  so  delight  in  a  bit  of  autobiography. 
There  was  a  general  entreaty  for  that  portion  of  Uncle 
Philip's  history  which  taught  him  the  true  definition 
of  a  Hero. 

He  hesitated  a  little,  for  many  reasons  ;  but  then  ho 
was  such  an  unselfish  kind-hearted  soul,  the  very  per 
fection  of  a  bachelor  uncle. 

Soon,  he  hit  upon  a  plan. 

"  Boys,  there  are  twelve  days  between  now  and  the 
New  Year ;  and  every  day  we  have  an  idle  hour  or 
two  between  the  lights,  or  just  before  bed-time.  Now, 
in  that  hour  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  like,  my  adventures 
in  search  of  a  Hero.  If  by  New  Year's  Eve,  I  have 


INTRODUCTION.  viJ 

not  found  him,  nor  you  either,  why — "  here  a  sudden 
and  rather  mysterious  smile  danced  in  Uncle  Philip's 
brown  eyes — "  we  must  look  for  him  in  some  other 


The  tale  thus  told,  or  rather  the  sketch  of  boyish 
life,  too  simple  to  be  called  a  tale,  has  been  preserved 
by  the  present  Author. 

She  has  done  so,  for  the  amusement  of  all  boys,  a 
race  whom  she  heartily  loves,  from  the  petticoated 
urchin  to  the  big  hobbledehoy.  But  especially  this 
book  is  written  for  another  Philip — 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 

now  a  little  year-old  child,  but  who,  his  god-mothe* 
hopes  and  prays,  may  one  day  mingle  with  the  world 
of  men,  and  there  prove  himself — in  the  noblest 
of  ills  word — a  Hero  ! 


HERO, 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  I  HEAR  they  are  all  very  nice  children,  your  Scotch  cousini 
8nd  one  of  them  in  particular  is  quite  a  little  hero." 

These  were  a  few  of  the  many  pairing  words  my  mothei 
said  to  me,  when  I,  a  lad  of  twelve  yeais  old,  was  trusted  tc 
pay  my  first  visit  from  home.  It  was  lo  my  uncle,  my 
father's  half  brother,  who  lived  in  the  Aorth,  and  whom 
neither  I  nor  my  English  mother  had  ever  jeen. 

A  little  Hero  !  I  remember  the  word  stuck  fast  to  my 
memory — for  I  had  been  deeply  studying  Plutarch's  Lives, 
until  my  mind  was  full  of  Epaminondas,  Alcibiades,  Aristides 
the  Just,  and  "  all  those  sort  of  chaps,"  as  you  school  boys 
would  have  said.  Also — with  my  Scottish  visit  in  prospect 
— I  had  read  up  tolerably  in  the  history  of  Wallace  and  Bruce, 
though  I  still  thought  the  Greek  warriors  much  the  finer 
fellows.  With  some  dim  notion  that  my  cousin  might  be 
one  who  wore  a  kilt  and  wielded  a  broadsword,  and  ivas  ready 
to  fight  every  body  in  the  fashion  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
Roderick  Dhu,  I  asked  my  mother  which  of  the  boys  he  was 
and  what  did  she  mean  by  calling  him  a  "  hero." 

She  perhaps  thought  she  had  said  too  much,  so  ^ave  mo 
unsatisfactory  answers.  But  I  persisted. 

l!  What  sort  of  a  hero  is  he  ?     Does  he  fight  with  A,  shield 


10  A  HERO. 

and  a  spear,  like  the  Thebans ;  or  in  armor,  like  William 
Wallace?  or  with  guns  arid  pistols  like — " 

Here  I  glanced  up  to  where,  over  the  mantle-piece  of  our 
little  cottage  parlor,  hung  my  father's  rifle,  sword,  and  belt. 
Suddenly  I  remembered  a  letter  my  mother  once  showed  me, 
in  which  it  said  that  "  Lieutenant  Henry  Carew  died  the 
death  of  a  hero." 

I  stopped — for  my  mother's  eyes  following  the  direction  of 
mine,  had  fallen  on  the  sword  and  belt.  She  never  looked 
at  them  without  crying.  So  T  did  not  like  to  put  any  more 
questions  about  heroes. 

Nevertheless  I  thought  a  great  deal  of  my  cousin,  and 
speculated  very  much,  and  not  without  considerable  fear,  as 
to  what  sort  of  a  person  he  would  turn  out  to  be.  This 
curiosity  was  so  strong  that  it  actually  helped  to  make  me 
less  sorrowful  at  parting  with  my  mother  and  sisters — don't 
laugh,  boys,  for  I  was  rather  tender  hearted  then,  and  much 
petted,  being  the  youngest,  and  the  only  son.  But  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  it — no,  upon  my  word  I'm  not.  It  is  only  a  coward 
who  is  ashamed  of  being  fond  of  his  mother  and  sisters. 

Well — I  said  good-by  to  them  all  at  home.  I  remember 
pretending  to  have  a  bad  cold  as  a  sort  of  apology  for  taking 
out  my  pocket-handkerchief — a  very  foolish  cheat  on  my  part ; 
but  I  did  riot  like  to  be  thought  a  baby.  It  was  only  when 
we  had  long  left  our  quiet  village,  rattled  over  London  streets, 
arid  my  poor  mother  and  I  sat  on  the  deck  of  the  ferocious 
looking  steamer  that  was  to  carry  me  away  far  north — where 
neither  she  nor  I  had  ever  been  before — it  was  only  then,  I 
say,  when  she,  half  crying  herself,  kept  telling  me  to  "  cheer 
up,"  and  "be  a  man" — that  I  proved  myself  to  be  still  a 
mere  baby,  by  bursting  out  blubbering  on  her  shoulder. 

(  *  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it  now,  not  in  the  least,"  said  Unclti 
Philip,  speaking  very  thick  and  blusteririgly,  but  growing 
rather  red  about  the  eyes — "  She  was  a  good  woman  always 


A  HERO.  U 

•  —your  grandmother — God  bless  her !  and,  as  they  say  in  the 
East,  may  she  live  a  thousand  years !" 

Which  sentiment  being  universally  echoed,  Uncle  Philip 
went  on.) 

I  don't  remember  much  about  the  voyage,  except  the  pre- 
liminary incident  of  my  mother's  wanting  to  put  rne  in  the 
ladies'  cabin  under  the  care  of  the  stewardess,  and  of  my  in- 
dignant protestation  against  the  same.  It  seemed  a  positive 
insult  to  a  boy  of  my  mature  age — thirteen  ;  though  my  poor 
mother  would  persist  in  considering  me  a  baby,  and  unable  to 
take  care  of  myself.  The  matter  ended  in  my  being  as- 
signed, with  the  dignity  due  to  my  sex,  to  the  gentleman's 
half  of  the  vessel,  where  I  was  tossed  about  and  scolded  in- 
cessantly during  three  interminable  days,  during  which  I  lay 
in  all  the  helpless  misery  of  a  first  sea  voyage,  heartily  wish- 
ing I  could  be  quietly  dropped  overboard,  and  so  come  to  an 
end  at  once,  without  any  body's  being  the  wiser. 

At  length  somehow  or  other  I  began  to  feel  better,  and 
took  courage  to  crawl  up  the  companion-ladder,  in  order  to 
find  out  whereabouts  in  the  wide  world  I  was ;  for  I  had  an 
uncomfortable  fear  that  the  boat  must  have  tumbled  through 
an  entire  ocean  since  I  last  went  on  deck,  and  that  we  should 
find  ourselves  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic.  An 
idea  not  very  pleasant  to  a  small  individual,  who  however 
he  might  admire  heroes  in  theory,  was  by  nature  a  rather 
timid  boy. 

("Oh,  Uncle  Philip,"  broke  in  one  or  two  astonished  voices 
But  Uncle  Philip  repeated  that  it  was  quite  true.  He  seem- 
ed to  take  pride  in  the  fact,  as  if  to  show  how  much  force  of 
will  could  effect  in  the  formation  of  character.) 

It  was  late  one  evening  when  I  crept  on  deck,  and  crouch- 
ed down  in  a  woefal  half-frig'itened  condition  behind  the  man 
it  the  wheel.  I  could  see  nothing  but  him,  for  the  night 
was  very  misty.  The  bo.it  appeared  to  be  going  through  a 


12  A  HERO. 

dense  white  fcg,  dashing  on  nobody  knew  where.  We  might 
.be  off  the  shore  of  America  for  all  I  could  tell — it  seemed 
such  an  awful  length  of  time  that  we  had  been  at  sea.  I 
was  very  cold  too,  though  it  was  summer  time — so  I  began 
to  think  that  we  must  have  come  within  the  line  of  the  float- 
ing Icebergs,  which,  as  I  had  somewhere  read,  are  often  met 
with  in  the  Atlantic  on  the  voyage  to  North  America.  My 
geographical  notions — indeed  all  my  ideas,  were  rather  con- 
fused ;  but  then  it  must  be  remembered  that  I  was  at  best  a 
queer-like  old  fashioned  little  fellow,  brought  up  at  home, 
entirely  among  women,  with  no  brothers  or  school-fellows. 
Moreover  I  had  been  sea-sick  for  four  days,  which  does  not 
materially  improve  one's  faculties. 

I  could  not  get  the  notion  of  icebergs  out  of  my  head,  and 
as  the  mist  cleared  a  little,  I  looked  anxiously  over  the  ship's 
side  Lo  !  there  was  a  confirmation  of  all  my  fears  !  A 
great,  gray,  mist-enveloped  thing,  rising  right  out  of  the 
water — seeming  to  be  floating  down  upon  us,  or  we  upon  it ; 
for  rny  still  dizzy  head  could  not  distinguish  which.  I  looked 
in  terror  on  the  man  at  the  wheel,  but  he  appeared  quite 
comfortable,  standing  there,  the  light  from  the  compass  lamp 
just  showing  his  hard,  ugly,  weather-beaten  face,  and  his 
big  shoulders,  all  the  bigger  for  an  enormous  pea-coat.  That 
man  was  my  nightmare,  afterward,  for  many  a  year  ;  when- 
ever I  ate  overmuch  supper  (as  boys  will  do,  more  shame  to 
them),  I  always  dreamt  I  was  turned  into  a  steamboat,  and 
he  sitting  on  my  deck,  i.  e.  rny  lungs — was  steering  me  right 
against  an  eternal  succession  of  ice-bergs. 

I  looked  at  this  man,  then  at  the  misty  object  standing 
upright  in  the  sea,  then  down  the  solitary  deck  of  the  vessel, 
and  lastly  at  the  man  again.  ]  got  positively  frightened, 
every  thing  was  so  silent  and  strange.  At  length  I  plucked 
up  spirit  to  go  nearer  him,  and  say  in  a  small  voice — "  If 
you  please — >; 


A  HEEu  13 

But  the  man  at  the  wheel  might  have  been  cut  out  of 
rock.  He  took  no  notice.  Most  likely,  he  neither  heard  noi 
saw  me,  so  engrossed  was  he  in  his  duty,  honest  fellow !  It 
never  struck  me,  as  he  stood  there,  his  eyes  keenly  fixed  for- 
ward, doing  nothing  but  turn  his  wheel  a  little  way  round 
and  back  again,  that  with  every  slight  motion  of  the  hand  he 
was  guiding  this  large  vessel's  course. 

Curiosity,  or  dogged  perseverance,  or  obstinacy — I  had  all 
three — impelled  me  not  to  give  in,  but  to  address  my  man 
again,  for  I  was  beginning  to  think  him  something  super- 
natural ;  especially  as,  in  my  universal  search  after  knowl- 
edge, I  had  read  a  queer  sort  of  poem,  which  I  greatly  ad- 
mired, but  did  not  altogether  understand — the  "  Ancient  Mar- 
iner." So  I  just  took  courage  to  touch  the  sleeve  of  the  pea- 
coat,  and  finding  that  it  was  quite  real,  as  well  as  the  arm 
within  it,  I  gave  both  a  good  pull. 

"  Hollo  !"  shouted  the  sailor,  rather  startled,  until  he  per- 
ceived my  small  self.  He  merely  shook  me  off]  as  if  I  had 
been  a  puppy  dog  pawing  him,  and  turned  to  the  wheel  again. 

Now,  as  I  said,  I  am  rather  obstinate  by  nature ;  and 
moreover  my  dignity  was  hurt.  I  pulled  his  arm  again,  ad- 
dressing him  boldly,  as — "  You,  sailor  !" 

"Ahoy!" 

"  Where  are  we,  sailor,  if  you  please  V  I  asked  meekly 
"  And  what  is  that  great  thing  there  ?" 

"  Yon's  Ailsa  Craig,  and  ye're  afFthe  coast  o'  Scotland." 

This  information,  given  in  a  very  grumpy  voice,  was  all  I 
could  get  out  of  h.;m.  I  thought  him  a  most  unpleasant  surly 
fellow,  little  knowing  that  on  his  strict  minding  of  his  duty 
depended  all  our  lives.  Afterward,  as  I  grew  older  and  wiser, 
this  little  adventure  taught  me  that  it  is  best  not  to  "  bother' 
unnecessarily  those  who  have  our  guidance  in  their  hands. 
T  found  this  plan  to  tell  through  life,  especially  with  regard 
to  those  who,  speaking  metaphorical,  y,  have  the  steering  of 


14  A  HERO 

the  family  ship.  So,  boys,  whenever  you  are  disposed  to 
plague  your  father  about  trifles,  or  make  complaints  to  your 
tutDr,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort,  just  remember  one  little 
maxim  that  you  may  find  written  up  in  all  steamboats — 
"  Don't  speak  io  the  man  at  the  ivheel" 

I  went  down  below,  and  slept — my  first  real  sleep  since  I 
left  home.  It  could  not  have  lasted  long,  however,  when  I 
was  awakened  by  a  great  trampling  overhead,  and  by  the 
engines  letting  off  steam.  The  steward,  putting  his  head  in, 
bawled  something  about  "  Greenock,"  which,  as  I  suddenly 
remembered,  my  mother  had  strongly  impressed  on  me  as 
being  the  place  where  my  uncle  was  to  meet  me.  In  a 
great  fright,  I  huddled  on  my  jacket,  collected  my  properties 
together  as  well  as  I  could,  and  went  on  deck. 

("  It  is  a  curious  thing,"  added  Uncle  Philip  in  a  paren- 
thesis— "  how  well  I  remember  every  little  circumstance  of 
this  journey,  the  first  important  epoch  of  my  life.  All  seems 
as  clear  as  yesterday — and  clearer  as  I  go  on.  I  must  cer- 
tainly have  a  capital  memory.  But  so  much  the  better  for 
you,  my  young  audience.") 

Now,  as  I  said  before,  I  had  never  seen  my  uncle,  nor  in 
deed,  from  some  family  differences,  had  I  ever  heard  much 
about  him,  except  his  name,  which  being  rather  un-English, 
I  had  in  the  bewilderment  of  the  moment  quite  forgotten. 
No  unlucky  boy  could  feel  more  thoroughly  desolate  than  I 
did  on  that  momentous  day,  when,  at  four  in  the  morning,  1 
found  myself  on  the  steamer's  deck  off  Greenock  quay,  jostled 
hither  and  thither  amid  the  confusion  of  hurried  passengers 
and  shouting  porters  ;  feeling  queer  and  half  asleep,  for  it 
was  not  yet  broad  daylight  ;  and  bewildered  by  the  clatter  of 
strange  tongues,  some  Scotch,  some  Gaelic,  though  both  were 
alike  unintelligible  to  me.  I  do  not  think  that  at  any  aftei 
portion  of  my  life  did  I  ever  feel  more  dolefully  miserable.  I 
sat  down  on  a  coil  of  ropes,  with  my  little  trunk  beside  me 


A  HERO.  l£ 

and  in.  truth  was  very  near  crying,  had  I  not  remembered 
that  that  would  disgrace  a  boy  of  thirteen  years  old. 

Soon  I  heard,  through  the  din  of  cross  passengers'  voices, 
one— not  cross  certainly,  though  it  had  a  peculiar  tone — very 
Scotch  I  thought  Nevertheless,  nothing  ever  impressed  rny 
ehildhh  mind  more  than  the  first  tone  of  that  voice — strong, 
deep,  steady,  and  kind,  giving  one  at  once  a  feeling  of  respect, 
slight  fear,  and  instinctive  trust.  It  sounded  distinctly  through 
all  the  confusion  of  the  vessel,  as  its  owner  walked  down  the 
deck,  looking  round  him. 

11  Is  there  any  boy  here  named  Philip  Carew  ?" 

I  jumped  up,  with  a  sudden  instinct  of  joy,  jumped  almost 
into  the  arms  of  my  Scottish  uncle. 

He  gave  me  a  quick  hearty  welcome — there  was  no  time 
for  more  :  caught  up  my  luggage  with  one  hand,  and  rnyseli 
with  the  other,  and  in  a  minute  we  were  standing  on  the 
quay. 

Then  it  was  I  managed  to  steal  an  inquiring  look  at  my 
uncle.  He  was  a  tall,  big  man — with  rather  harsh  features, 
tanned  as  brown  as  a  berry ;  and  a  quantity  of  gray  hair 
flying  about  in  all  directions,  in  a  fashion  that  irresistibly  re- 
minded me  of  a  hay-stack  in  a  high  wind.  At  first  sight  he 
seemed  a  very  formidable  person — especially  to  a  shy  English 
boy — but  as  soon  as  he  began  to  speak  there  was  something 
in  his  smile  so  very  good-natured,  warm-hearted,  and  cheery, 
that  I  took  courage. 

"  Lift  up  your  head,  boy  :  let  me  look  at  you  !" 

He  did  so  for  a  long  time,  and  then  turned  his  head  away 
I  afterward  guessed  why.  He  and  his  half-brother  had  been 
boys  together,  but,  when  young  men,  had  suddenly  parted  in 
anger,  and  never  met  more  I  was  considered  very  like  my 
father,  arid  perhaps  he  noticed  it. 

"  Norman  !"  shouted  my  uncle  abruptly,  as  we  stood  or 
the  now  deserted  quays  ;  a  boy  of  about  rny  own  size  cam? 


16  A  HEEO 

forward,  I  did  not  notice  from  whence.  "  Here,  lads,  shake 
hands.  Philip  Carew,  this  is  your  eldest  cousin,  Norman 
Macllroy.  (That  then  was  the  queer  name  I  had  forgotten.) 
Be  friends  with  one  another,  as  your  fathers  were  before  you 
— and  mind,  never  quarrel,  never  quarrel !" 

Saying  this  he  walked  off  hastily  to  another  end  of  the 
quay,  leaving  us  two  hoys  together.  I  eyed  mv  cousin  very 
curiously.  To  this  day  I  remember  the  look  of  him. 

A  slender,  tight-made  little  fellow,  any  thing  but  a  beauty 
— (now  I  myself  was  "  a  very  pretty  boy"  I  believe).  He 
had  a  thorough  Scotch  face — high  cheek-bones — a  freckled 
skin — and  hair  which,  in  many  an  English  school,  would  have 
assuredly  gained  for  him  the  pleasant  nick-name  of  "  Carrots." 
Not  that  it  was  really  carroty,  being  a  rather  pretty  color, 
I  thought,  but  nevertheless  decidedly  red.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  jacket  and  trowsers  (which  I  should  certainly  have 
scorned  as  being  apparently  made  out  of  my  mother's  black 
and  white  plaid  shawl),  and  he  had  on  a  queer  sort  of  cap 
without  a  brim — a  "  Glengarry"  bonnet,  as  I  afterwaid 
found  out. 

We  stood  and  eyed  one  another  rather  suspiciously — Scotch 
boy  and  English  boy — just  as  if  we  had  been  the  two  oppos- 
ing armies  on  Flodden  Field,  of  which  I  had  lately  read.  At 
last,  the  idea  seemed  to  strike  us  that  it  was  very  funny,  our 
staring  at  one  another  in  this  stupid  way ;  for,  with  one  im- 
pulse, we  both  burst  out  laughing. 

"  That's  right,  old  fellow,"  said  my  cousin,  patting  me  on 
the  shoulder — "  we  shall  be  capital  friends  directly." 

We  made  no  more  fraternization  than  this,  for  boys  are 
very  shy  of  an  outward  expression  of  liking  ;  but  somehovi 
we  got  into  friendly  talk.  When  Uncle  Macllroy  came  back, 
he  found  us  sitting  together  on  the  steps  of  the  custorn-house, 
^uite  sociable  ;  Norman  having  learned  from  me  the  whole 
history  of  my  voyage,  while  he,  in  return,  was  communicating 


A  EERO.  17 

various  pieces  of  information  as  to  where  1  now  was,  anu 
whither  I  was  going. 

I  observed  that  he  had,  like  his  father,  an  odd  sing-song 
way  of  speaking  which  I  could  not  at  first  catch,  and  which 
sometimes  made  me  laugh.  I  concluded  it  was  only  the 
Scotch  accent,  and  exulted  in  the  vast  superiority  of  my 
own  cockney  tongue. 

"  Well,  lads,  how  are  you  getting  on  ?"  said  my  uncle; 
taking  out  his  watch — "  'Tis  now  just  five,  and  the  first 
Dunoon  boat  does  not  start  till  seven — What  will  you  do  ? 
Would  you  like  something  to  eat,  Philip,  or  wait  till  you  join 
your  aunt's  breakfast  table  at  eight  1" 

Being  in  a  state  of  excitement  and  bewilderment  that  en- 
tirely took  away  my  appetite,  I  said  I  would  wait — though 
where  I  was  to  be  taken  to  eat  this  problematical  breakfast  I 
had  not  the  least  idea. 

"  Come  then,  here's  enough  to  keep  you  from  famishing  for 
an  hour  or  two." 

He  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  three-cornered  thing  which 
he  called  a  scone;  a  queer  looking  cake  I  thought,  but  really 
very  nice.  I  ate  one,  and  Norman  another,  with  consid- 
erable gusto  ;  then  we  walked  up  and  down  the  quay,  look- 
ing at  ihe  shipping  close  by,  the  broad  river,  and  the  hills 
beyond. 

I  don't  think,  nephews,  that  I  ever  shall  forget  that  morn 
ing.  It  was  the  first  morning  I  had  seen  the  sun  rise,  being, 
like  most  other  spoiled  children,  a  very  lazy  little  fellow,  and 
a  disgraceful  lie-a-bed.  Until  now  I  had  no  notion  how  the 
world  looked  at  four  or  five  in  the  morning,  especially  in 
Scotland.  That  picture  still  remains,  so  firmly  riveted  was 
it  on  my  childish  memory — the  silent,  solitary  quay — the  ships 
lying  motionless  alongside,  as  if  they  were  half  asleep — the 
broad  bars  of  amber  and  rosy  clouds  streaking  the  east — the 
distant  hills  painted  of  a  deep  lilac — and  the  river  between, 


18  A-  HERO. 

taking  all  sorts  of  colors  according  as  the  sky  changed  .1 
never  saw  such  a  scene  as  that — never !  It  made  me  an 
early  riser  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

Norman  tried  hard  to  amuse  me,  and  put  my  geographical 
powers  to  their  utmost  stretch,  by  pointing  out,  with  a  very 
natural  pride,  the  beauties  of  his  country. 

Ben  Lomond  was  over  there — he  said  ,  I  had  surely  heard 
of  the  great  Ben.  Perhaps  I  might  see  him  now,  unless,  as 
was  probable,  he  had  his  nightcap  on. 

"  His  nightcap  !"   I  repeated,  rather  puzzled. 

"  1  mean  the  mist  that  is  almost  always  seen  covering  the 
top  of  very  high  mountains,"  explained  my  cousin. 

Upon  which  there  luckily  flashed  across  rny  mind  a  sen 
tence  out  of  my  geography  book — "  Highest  mountains  in 
Scotland  are  Ben  Lomond  and  Ben  Nevis"  So  I  merely 
observed—"  Oh,  of  course  !"  and  hid  my  ignorance  beneath 
a  very  wise  shake  of  th:'  head. 

"  There's  Dumbarton  Rock,  so  celebrated  in.  history,"  con- 
tinued Norman,  but  talking  in  a  very  quiet  way,  not  in  a 
show-off  style  at  all.  "  You  may  see  it  clearly,  far  down  the 
reach  of  the  river,  toward  Glasgow.  It's  a  curious  place  ;  I 
once  climbed  to  the  top  of  it,  to  Wallace's  watch-tower." 

"  Oh,  William  Wallace,"  said  I,  anxious  to  exhibit  my 
acquaintance  with  Scottish  history.  "  I  know  all  about  him. 
He  was  a  great  hero,  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Norman,  rather  indifferently,  for  he  was 
•watching  his  father,  who  happened  to  be  looking  grave  just 
then. 

The  word  hero  set  me  off  on  rny  old  hobby,  and  reminded 
me  of  my  mother's  still  unexplained  words,  concerning  the 
one  of  my  cousins  who  was  "  quite  a  hero."  It  could  not  be 
Norman.  Such  a  quiet  looking,  plain  little  fellow,  in  a  plaid 
jacket  and  trowsers  !  not  at  all  the  sort  of  hero  I  had  ex 
pected.  Perhaps  there  might  be  another  of  the  family. 


A  HERO  IS 

"  How  many  brothers  have  you!"  said  I  abruptly. 

"  There  are  five  of  us — I  am  the  eldest." 

"  You  !"  I  exclaimed  with  some  surprise  and  a  little  di» 
dain,  for  my  hopes  of  finding  the  "hero"  became  less  and  less. 
"  All  younger  than  you.  What  babies  !" 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Norman  laughing.  "  I'm  not  over  tall 
myself,  though  I'm  older  than  I  seem  ;  but  if  you  like  a  great 
big  fellow,  there's  my  next  brother,  Hector." 

"Ah,  that  was  it !  Hector  must  be  the  hero — called  after 
his  great  namesake,  the  defender  of  Troy.  I  was  thoroughly 
'*  up"  in  that  history,  having  been  lately  put  into  Virgil  (for 
I  was  rather  a  clever  boy),  and  having  got  safely  through  the 
second  book  of  the  ^Eneid.  Here  was  the  secret  out ;  Hector 
was  certainly  the  hero  my  mother  meant.  I  prepared  myself 
with  no  little  expectation,  and  with  some  alarm,  for  the  ex- 
pected meeting. 

So  full  was  my  mind  of  this,  that  I  don't  clearly  recollect 
any  thing  more  that  happened,  until  the  steamboat  landed  at 
a  pier,  very  quiet  and  desolate  compared  with  the  London 
quays  ;  and  I,  quite  out  of  breath  with  climbing  a  terribly 
hilly  street  which  Norman  called  "  a  brae,"  found  myself  at 
my  uncle's  door. 

In  the  little  parlor,  at  the  head  of  the  breakfast  table,  sat 
my  aunt.  I  did  not  notice  her  much  then,  except  that  she 
looked  kind,  arid  kissed  me.  But  I  was  dying  with  curiosity 
to  see  my  hero-cousin.  There  were  in  the  room  three  small 
boys,  the  youngest  quite  a  baby.  I  was  quite  relieved  to  hear 
my  uncle  call  out  "  Where's  Hector  ?" 

"In  his  bed — Hector's  always  lazy,"  said  some  of  the 
younger  lads. 

"  Hector  rowed  us  half-way  to  Greenock  arid  back  last 
night,"  observed  Norman,  in  his  quiet  way. 

"  So  he  did,';  cried  my  uncle,  smoothing  a  rather  angry 
brow.  "  But  surely  he  has  had  rest  enough.  Go,  Philip, 


SC  A  HERO. 

help  to  pull  your  cousin  out  of  bed  ;  we  can  have  no  laz) 
loons  here." 

Alas,  for  my  expected  hero  ! 

Hector  was  a  great  boy,  much  bigger  than  Norman.  He 
looked  very  handsome  too,  though  he  lay  fast  asleep  with  his 
mouth  open  ;  which  was  not  becoming,  nor,  indeed,  at  all 
like  a  hero.  Nevertheless,  when  we  had  fairly  roused  him — a 
difficult  matter — and  he  was  up  and  dressed,  I  regarded  my 
cousin  with  much  respect.  He  was  a  very  fine  fellow,  tall 
and  strong,  with  sunburnt  cheeks  and  curly  brown  hair,  and 
oh  !  such  a  loud,  merry,  hearty  voice.  I  greatly  admired 
him,  and  thought  that  I  must  be  right  at  last  in  my  hero, 
even  though  he  had  neither  kilt,  pistols,  nor  broadsword,  but 
came  down  to  breakfast  in  the  ugly  plaid  jacket  andtrowsers 
like  his  brothers. 

The  rest  of  my  cousins  I  remember  I  scarcely  looked  ai,, 
but  set  them  all  down  together  as  "  the  children."  There 
was  among  them  but  one  little  girl. 

(Here  Uncle  Philip  paused,  but  continued  after  a  tew 
moments — "  Some  of  you  elder  ones  may  remember  '  Cousin 
Gracie,'  as  you  called  her,  who  spent  eorne  months  with 
grandmamma,  arid  died  ten  years  ago,  before  I  went  to 
India." 

The  children  looked  grave,  for  most  of  them  had  heard 
something  about  a  Scottish  lady  who  was  to  have  been  Uncle 
Philip's  wife,  and  for  whose  sake  it  was  thought  he  would 
always  remain  an  old  bachelor.  After  a  brief  silence,  the 
story  was  continued.) 

Norman  came  in,  carrying  his  sister  in  his  arms,  for  she 
was  lame  in  her  ankles,  just  then,  and  could  not  walk.  Gracie 
bad  always  been  delicate,  they  said  ;  but  she  smiled  sweetly, 
and  thanked  Norman  so  cheerfully  when  he  set  her  down, 
that  no  one  would  have  thought  she  was  ill.  She  was  one 
of  those  patient  creatures  who  make  sickness  so  beautiful 


A  HERO.  21 

tnai   afterward    \\c  remember    them   as   if  they  had  been 
angels. 

(Uncle  Philip's  voice  altered  ;  and  after  a  sentence  or  twc 
more,  in  which  he  tried  to  continue  the  story  by  a  description 
of  his  first  breakfast  in  Scotland,  he  came  to  a  dead  stop, 
observed  that  it  was  bed  time,  and  finished  the  history  for  that 
evening.) 


CHAPTER,  II 

OF  course,  children  (said  Uncle  Philip),  you  don't  expect 
£13  to  go  on  telling  you  categorically  what  I  and  my  cousins 
did  every  morning,  noon,  and  night.  That  were  impossible 
to  the  best  memory  in  the  world,  while  still  a  childish  memory. 
When  we  think  of  our  young  days  we  can  but  remember  cir- 
cumstances here  and  there  ;  particular  days,  hours,  or  events, 
which  stand  out  clear  from  the  rest,  like  bits  of  a  distant 
landscape  viewed  through  a  telescope,  which  appear  wonder- 
fully distinct  and  accurate  so  far  as  they  extend,  but  which 
only  comprise  a  small  portion  of  the  view. 

Thus  I  shall  tell  you  at  hap-hazard  fragments  of  autobi- 
ography— certain  days  or  certain  adventures  ; — the  rest  of  our 
life  at  Dunoon  you  must  imagine  for  yourselves. 

The  first  thing  I  remember  was  that  same  evening,  after 
I  had  been  sent  to  bed  by  my  sensible  aunt,  and  had  slept 
throughout  the  day  as  sound  as  a  top.  I  woke  up  to  tea, 
and  then  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  on  the  beautifu.7 
river.  Now  1  had  never  seen  any  river  or  large  sheet  oi 
water,  except  that  day  when  1  sailed  down  the  Thames  and 
over  the  sea.  O  miserable  voyage  !  enough  to  give  me,  in  a 
moral  sense,  a  perpetual  hydrophobia.  ("  You  understand, 
boys,  I  don't  mean  mere  dog-madness.  Look  to  your  Greek 
derivations  —  hydro-whobia"  said  Uncle  Philip  parentheti- 
cally.) 

I  had  thought  and  said  to  Norman  that  the  very  sight  of 
water  would  be  enough  to  make  me  ill,  henceforth  ;  but  ] 
changed  rny  mind  when  I  looked  on  the  magnificent  Clyde, 


A  HERO.  23 

"  That's  the  Clough  point  opposite,"  said  Norman,  good 
naturedly  telling  me  the  various  places  down  the  shore. 
"Farther  down  are  two  islands,  the  Greater  and  Lesser 
Cumbraes,  we  call  them.  About  there  the  Firth  divides 
and  goes  round  either  side  of  the  Island  of  Bute.  A  long 
way  beyond,  you  may  see  something  like  a  two  headed  cloud 
lying  on  the  horizon." 

I  did,  with  some  difficulty,  for  my  eyes  were  not  accustomed 
to  such  distances. 

"  That's  Goatfell,  the  topmost  peak  of  the  Island  of  Arran. 
A  curious  island  it  is,  all  formed  of  hills,  or  rather  granite 
rocks.  It's  awful  fatiguing  work  to  climb  Goatfell,  but  my 
father  says  we  lads  shall  try  to  do  it  some  day.  Did  you 
ever  climb  a  mountain,  Philip  ?" 

I  confessed  somewhat  with  shame,  that  until  to-day  I  had 
never  even  seen  one.  And  I  further  confessed,  that  in  the 
sight  I  had  been  a  good  deal  disappointed.  "  A  mountain 
isn't  half  what  I  thought,"  said  I,  "  I  expected  they  would 
be  a  great  deal  higher,  and  would  rise  right  upright  like 
the  side  of  a  house,  very  awful  and  grand.  Now  those  hills 
there  are  nothing  ;  I  could  run  up  them  easily." 

"  Could  you,  my  boy  ?"  said  Uncle  Macllroy,  coming  be- 
hind us.  "  But  that  is  what  we  all  do  on  entering  the  world  ; 
we  imagine  to  ourselves  mountains,  and  find  them  mere 
molehills — we  try  to  climb  molehills  and  find  they  are  very 
considerable  mountains,  after  all.  Hout,  tout !  (a  queer  ex- 
pression he  had)  bide  your  time  till  ye  are  wiser,  Philip 
Carew." 

I  did  not  then  understand  my  uncle's  quaint  saying,  but  I 
have  since. 

We  were  interrupted  by  Hector's  shouting  from  the  garden 
below,  "Norman!  Cousin  Phil!  will  you  come  and  have  a 
pull?" 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?"  said  I,  "  what  sort  of  a  pull  ?" 


24  A  HERO. 

"  A  pull  at  the  oar,"  answered  Norman,  laughing.  "  Did 
you  never  row  ?" 

I  certainly  never  did,  in  fact  I  had  never  been  in  any  boat 
but  a  canal-boat  drawn  by  a  horse.  I  tried  to  explain  this, 
my  sole  experiment  in  navigation,  as  I  was  going  down  to 
the  beach  with  the  boys ;  but  Hector  burst  into  such  fits  of 
laughter  that  I  found  the  story  too  humiliating.  In  fact 
when  I  saw  these  two  sturdy,  active,  fearless  Scottish  lads 
haul  up  their  boat,  drag  me  into  it,  and  dash  off  amidst 
threatening  rocks,  and  waves  so  high  that  the  little  boat 
went  up  and  down  on  them  like  a  cockle-shell,  making  me 
inclined  to  scream  with  fright — I  began  to  feel  that  as  re- 
garded all  manly  exercises  my  education  had  been  very  much 
neglected. 

I  had  seemed  to  myself  a  very  fine  fellow  strutting  about 
among  my  mother  and  sisters  at  home  ;  I  shrunk  into  a  mere 
baby,  sitting  in  the  stern,  with  those  two  lads,  little  older 
than  myself,  so  brave  and  independent,  sweeping  among  the 
waves  and  under  the  shadow  of  the  hills,  which,  I  began  to 
think  were  really  grand,  after  all. 

"  It's  growing  misty  over  the  river,"  said  Norman,  stop- 
ping in  his  laughter  and  jokes  with  his  brother,  which,  I 
must  say,  they  tried  to  make  intelligible  and  amusing  to  me, 
but  hardly  succeeded  ;  I  still  felt  so  strange  to  all  about  me. 

"  Never  mind  mist,  it  will  be  moon-rise  directly,"  Hector 
3ried,  giving  a  long,  sinewy  stroke  with  his  oar,  and  then 
laughing  to  see  that  with  his  greater  strength  he  could  pull 
his  brother  round — that  is,  he  could  make  the  boat  turn  till 
her  bow  was  where  her  stern  should  be.  She  spun  round 
and  round  till  I  was  quite  frightened. 

"  Hector,  you're  too  daring,"  said  Norman. 

"  And  you're  too — "  Perhaps  in  the  excitement  of  the 
nr>ment  he  was  going  to  say  "too  cowardly ;"  but  he  stopped. 

"  Hector,"  said  Norman  again,  in  a  very  low  tone      I  wan 


A  HERO.  -23 

a  good  deal  surprised  to  see  that  Hector  gave  up  his  too  ven- 
turous fun  and  rowed  steadily  for  full  ten  minutes.  But  when 
I  had  got  over  my  fright,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not  admire 
the  daring  reckless  younger  brother  a  great  deal  the  most,  and 
became  quite  convinced  in  my  own  rnind  that  he,  and  none 
but  he,  was  the  Hero. 

We  pulled  on  merrily,  at  least  they  did  ;  while  I  sat  watch 
ing  them  in  longing  admiration  ;  for  nothing  impresses  a  boy 
with  so  much  respect  as  the  exercise  of  physical  power.  I 
remember  I  carried  my  enthusiasm  on  this  point  to  such  an 
extent,  that  afterward  I  actually  reverenced  the  first  fellow 
who  ever  gave  rne  a  sound  thrashing,  more  than  I  did  any 
other  boy  in  the  school. 

"Phil !  would  you  like  to  take  an  oar?"  shouted  Hector, 
more  in  bravado  than  kindness,  I  fancy. 

Now  T,  having  got  somewhat  accustomed  to  my  novel  posi- 
tion, was  longing  for  an  opportunity  of  doing  that  which  the 
two  lads  seemed  to  do  with  so  much  ease.  Nevertheless  my 
boldness  and  self-confidence  were  not  over  great,  and  I  was 
half  deterred  by  Hector's  unpleasant  manner  of  making  the 
offer. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  row,"  said  I,  hesitating, 
«  but — " 

"  But,  you're  afraid  !  Well,  I  dare  say  you're  right,  my 
little  fellow,"  answered  my  cousin,  in  the  rather  contempt- 
uous and  superior  tone  which  big  boys  delight  in  using  toward 
smaller  ones.  I  was  a  good  deal  nettled,  but  had  sense  enough 
to  hold  my  tongue.  Hector  went  on  laughing  and  talking, 
quite  indifferent  to,  or  oblivious  of  me.  I  thought  this  scarcely 
polite  ;  but  he  was  such  a  good-natured  hearty  fellow  that 
nobody  could  be  angry  with  him  long. 

We  got  into  smooth  water  in  the  curve  of  the  bay. 

"  Now,"  said  Norman,  calling  to  me  from  the  bow — LJ 
always  gave  his  brother  the  stroke-oar,  which  dignity  Hectoj 

II 


26  A  HERO. 

would  not  easily  have  relinquished,  I  suspect; — "  Now,  Phil, 
come  over  here  and  I'll  give  you  your  first  lessons  in  pulling  ; 
we  must  make  you  as  good  an  oarsman  as  any  of  us,  before 
you  go  south  again. — Hola,  there  !  take  care  !" 

His  cheery  voice  and  good-natured  way  of  helping  me,  as 
I  "  crawled"  down  the  length  of  the  boat,  in  the  midst  of 
Hector's  suppressed  grumbling,  made  me  feel  wondrously 
grateful  to  my  cousin  Norman. 

I  clutched  the  oar  eagerly,  and  of  course  did  what  every 
body  does  the  first  time  of  attempting  such  a  feat,  easy  thougli 
it  is  afterward,  when  one  gets  into  the  knack  of  it.  I  made 
an  awkward  dolt  of  myself ;  got  red  in  the  face,  struck  myself 
breathless  by  a  blow  on  the  chest  with  the  oar,  "  caught  crabs" 
innumerable,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  !  The  boys  burst  into 
shouts  of  laughter  ;  even  Norman  could  not  help  doing  so,  until 
he  saw  tears  of  vexation  in  my  eyes — for  I  was  a  very  touchy 
little  fellow,  and  very  self-conceited  too. 

"  Come,  never  mind  ;  you've  plenty  of  pluck,  I  see ;  you'd 
row  capitally  in  time,"  said  he,  "  only  do  riot  splutter  arid  dash 
the  water  about,  and  make  such  an  awful  fuss  and  exertion 
over  it.  Take  things  coolly,  my  lad.  Look  here." 

He  took  the  oar  from  my  hand,  and  showed  ma  how  in 
this,  as  in  many  other  things  throughout  life,  quiet  work  makes 
quick  work  ;  for  a  simple  and  adroit  turn  of  the  wrist  effected 
all  that  was  necessary.  He  pulled  a  few  strokes,  which  seemed 
to  me  wonderfully  clever  ;  doing  so  readily  what  I  had  done 
with  such  desperate  sffbrt.  Now  I  understood  the  mystery  ; 
it  was  quite  a  treat  :o  watch  him,  dipping  his  oar  noiselessly 
and  quietly  without  producing  one  ripple  in  the  water,  and 
bending  forward  his  body  with  ease  and  grace  at  every  stroke. 
My  admiration  rose  immediately,  and  with  it  my  desire  of 
emulation. 

"Let  me  try  again,"  I  entreated.  Hector  looked  rathey 
cross,  and  said  something  about  "keeping  back  th<;  beat,' 


A  HERO.  2T 

and  "  spoiling  fun  ;"  but  the  elder  brother  took  no  notice,  and 
I  had  my  will. 

I  have  known  many  a  pleasurable  excitement  in  my  life  ; 
many  a  thrill  of  triumphant  pride  ;  but  I  do  not  think  I  evei 
felt  so  proud,  as  in  the  moment  when,  rny  awkwardness  over- 
come, I  first  found  myself  really  "  rowing  ;" — sweeping  the 
boat  along  with  the  force  of  rny  own  single  strength.  It  was 
a  sense  of  victory,  of  power,  of  independence — feelings,  the 
most  delicious  to  either  man  or  boy  ;  Alexander  the  Great 
(always  my  pet  hero),  when  he  had  conquered  his  millions, 
could  not  have  felt  prouder  than  I,  when  I  conquered  the 
waves  of  Clyde,  and  looked  over  the  whole  river,  conscious 
that  with  a  little  boat  and  an  oar,  I  could  at  any  time  be 
free  master  of  it  all. 

(•'  I  have  owed  my  cousin  Norman  a  great  many  things  in 
my  life,"  continued  Uncle  Philip,  smiling,  "  but  one  of  the 
greatest  debts  I  owe  him,  was  teaching  me  to  row.  From 
that  night  I  date  a  pleasure,  which  1  shall  never  cease  to 
delight  in  while  I  live.  Children,  I  don't  think  Uncle  Philip 
is  ever  so  thoroughly  happy  as  when  he  is  pulling  away  over 
a  broad  river,  the  boat  dancing  on  like  a  feather,  with  the 
waves  lapping  at  the  keel — nothing  but  water  around,  and 
the  blue  sky  overhead — Ugh  !" 

Captain  Carew  here  gave  an  unearthly  grunt,  probably 
expressive  of  intense  satisfaction,  and  after  a  minute's  pause 
went  on.) 

Henceforth,  I  took  such  a  liking  to  the  water,  that  Uncle 
Macllroy  declared  I  must  certainly  have  been  born  amphibi- 
ous. My  first  letter  home  contained  such  glowing  accounts 
of  my  daring  aquatic  exploits,  that  I  am  sure  my  poor  mother 
must  have  been  terrified  out  of  her  senses,  and  never  expected 
to  see  her  only  son  return  alive.  But  this  was  before  the  time 
of  penny  postage,  so  I  had  no  opportunity  of  frightening  hei 
often. 


28  A  HEBO. 

We  began  to  lead  a  very  happy  life — my  cousins  and  I ;  il 
was  a  life  of  entire  holiday,  for  my  uncle  lived  in  Glasgow 
He  was  one  of  the  masters  in  the  High  School  there,  and  a 
very  learned  man  too,  having  been  educated  for  a  minister. 
The  family  had  only  come  to  spend  a  few  weeks  at  the  coast 
before  the  classes  recommenced. 

Uncle  Macllroy  was  one  of  those  wise  people  who  think 
that  work  should  be  work,  and  play,  play  ;  so  he  gave  hia 
boys  full  liberty,  and  even  made  himself  quite  a  boy  likewise 
among  them  all.  This  however  was  only  at  times ;  and 
amidst  all  the  freedom  he  used,  and  allowed  them  to  use,  one 
could  see  that  it  was  merely  the  pleasant  condescension  of  a 
supreme  ruler — so  certain  of  his  authority  that  he  could  afford 
to  let  the  reins  loose  at  times.  I  did  not  quite  understand 
him  then,  and  was  somewhat  frightened  of  him  besides  ;  but 
I  have  since  thought  that  there  could  never  have  been  a  better 
father  of  a  family  than  Uncle  Macllroy.  Firm  he  was,  never 
allowing  the  slightest  breach  of  discipline  ;  his  will  was  in  all 
things  supreme,  his  "yea"  was  yea  and  his  "nay,"  nay ;  no 
body  ever  dreamed  of  opposing  either.  Yet  he  was  so  right 
n  all  he  did,  so  just,  above  all  so  thoroughly  true — exact  in 
speech,  punctual  alike  in  commands  and  in  promises — that 
every  body  loved,  and  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  honored 
him. 

When  I  came  to  live  with  Uncle  Macllroy  I  first  learned 
to  regret,  what  I  have  often  regretted  since,  that  I  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  have  a  father. 

Of  my  aunt  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  speak,  except  that  she 
was  a  worthy  wife  to  such  a  worthy  man.  She  is  living 
still,  and  I  think  if  she  heard  it,  this  my  simple  description 
of  her  would  be  the  veiy  one  of  which  she  would  most  ap- 
prove. 

Nephews,  I  hope  you  don't  find  these  tacts  very  uninterest- 
ing. I  stat3  them,  not  as  being  what  T  observed  then,  but  ac 


A  HERO.  29 

the  resjils  of  after  reflection  concerning  those  boyish  days  If 
you  object  to  my  dilating  so  much  upon  "  elderly"  people,  1 
can  only  say  that  in  telling  this  story  I  prefer  rather  to  raise 
your  minds  above  their  level  than  to  depress  them,  remember- 
ing that  you  can't  ever  be  younger,  and  that  you  are  fast  ad- 
vancing toward  the  time  when  you  will  yourselves  be  grown 
men  and  heads  of  families. 

(There  arose  a  little  laugh  at  this,  but  it  was  soon  stilled  by 
Uncle  Philip's  extreme  gravity  for  he  was  on  his  hobby,  one 
not  rare  to  old  bachelors,  the  proper  mode  of  ruling  a  family. 
No  one  could  get  him  off  it,  sc  there  was  little  more  autobi- 
ography that  night.) 


CHAPTER   III. 

("  AN  adventure,  an  adventure  to-night,  Uncle  Philip ! 
Surely  you  must,  have  had  something  of  the  kind  during  the 
time  you  were  at  Dunoori." 

Uncle  Philip,  who  was  just  about  to  begin  his  relation, 
looked  puzzled.  "  Do  you  mean  the  sort  of  adventures  that 
used  to  happen  to  me  in  tne  Punjauh,  such  as  attacks  from 
the  natives,  or  tiger  fights  in  jungles,  or  being  half  drowned 
in  crossing  rivers,  or  those  sorts  of  little  tribulations  ?" 

His  nephews  laughed,  and  said  they  only  wanted  boyish 
adventures  ;  something  queer,  arid  interesting,  and  true,  and 
dangerous,  but  in  a  small  way,  of  course. 

"  Land  or  water  adventures  ?" 

There  were  dissentient  voices,  but  "  water"  carried  the  day. 

"  I  have  it !"  said  Uncle  Philip  "  Fetch  me  the  map  of 
Scotland.") 

Now,  boys,  I  daresay  it  seems  to  you  but  a  small  distance 
from  Dunoon,  round  that  point  of  land  and  across  to  Green 
ock  ;  yet  I  assure  you  it  is  nine  or  tea  English  miles.  This 
was  the  longest  pull  we  boys  had  ever  had. 

We  planned  it,  I  scarce  remember  why,  one  day  when 
Uncle  Mcllroy  was  away  at  Glasgow.  Otherwise  probably 
we  might  not  have  been  allowed  to  do  it.  But  it  was  such 
a  delicious  exploit,  that  even  the  long-headed,  prudent  Nor- 
man gave  in  to  the  excitement  of  the  plan. 

Another  reason  we  had,  was  that  little  Gracie,  who,  in 
spite  of  her  weakness,  was  a  fearless  child,  and  very  fond  of 
tii a  water,  longed  to  see  more  of  the  river  than  in  her  helpless 


A  HERO.  31 

state  she  was  ever  likely  to  see,  except  in  our  nice  fcuat,  where 
she  was  carried  every  day,  and  sat  in  the  stern  on  cushions, 
looking,  as  one  day  Norman  said — "just  like  Queen  Cleopatra 
sailing  down  the  Cydnus.' 

She  begged  to  go,  and  as  she  was  a  great  pet  with  us  all, 
why — she  went. 

I  well  remember  that  day.  It  was  about  eight  in  the 
morning,  for  of  course  we  had  to  start  very  early.  There  was 
a  soft  mist  over  the  river,  but  not  so  as  to  make  our  boating 
dangerous,  and  the  sun  vas  very  bright  and  warm.  We  had 
picked  out  our  crew  with  great  care  and  pride  ;  choosing  only 
those  who  could  be  useful  and  row  ;  so  the  number  dwindled 
down  into  Norman,  Hector,  Jarnes  the  third  brother,  a  funny, 
clever  little  fellow,  who  we  thought  would  keep  us  alive  with 
his  jokes,  save  that  though  he  could  handle  an  oar  pretty  well, 
he  was  apt  to  get  excited  and  terrified — and  lastly,  myself. 
Little  Gracie  was  our  only  passenger. 

She  asserted  that  we  ought  to  have,  in  true  nautical  fashion, 
a  distinguishing  mark  for  our  boat's  crew ;  so,  determined 
that  we  should  do  every  thing  grand,  she  fastened  sprays  of 
ivy  in  all  our  hats,  just  where  the  sailors  wear  the  name  of 
their  vessels.  A  pretty  fancy  of  the  child's  ;  and  we  were  all 
ready  to  please  her. 

At  last  we  started  from  the  West  Bay,  greatly  to  the  ad- 
miration of  a  group  of  boatmen,  who,  when  we  told  them  the 
port  we  were  bound  to,  opened  their  eyes  wide,  and  wished  us 
safe  back  again.  But  we  were  bold,  and  had  no  fears. 

After  some  discussion,  we  settled  that  the  wisest  way  to 
steer  our  voyage,  so  as  to  keep  clear  of  our  great  terror — the 
steamers,  that  were  then  beginning  to  ply  up  and  down  the 
Clyde  pretty  frequently,  though  in  nothing  like  such  numbers 
as  at  present — was  to  go  right  across  to  the  Clough  Point, 
and  then  follow  the  windings  of  the  shore  up  to  Greenock. 

This  being  decided,  off  \ve  flew  like  an   arrow ;    Gracio 


32  A  HERO. 

striking  up  one  of  her  rnerry  songs.  She  had  the  sweetest 
voice  I  ever  heard  in  a  child. 

(Uncle  Philip  here  spoke  hesitatingly,  as  he  always  dk* 
whenever  he  alluded  to  little  Gracie  ;  but  he  seemed  to  think 
she  was  necessary  to  the  history,  so  always  mentioned  hei 
name  with  the  rest.  The.  children  heard  it  silently  and  with 
awe,  as  young  people  always  listen  to  the  mention  of  one  that 
is  dead.) 

We  had  not  started  long  when  there  arose  one  of  those  dif- 
ficulties which  prove  the  unerring  truth,  that  in  every  collect- 
ive body,  there  must  be  one  to  rule.  There  lie,  a  little  way 
in  the  river,  opposite  Dunoon,  a  small  cluster  of  rocks,  called 
the  Gauntlets.  Now,  Hector  wanted  to  row  outside  the 
Gauntlets,  and  little  Jamie,  who  was  terribly  afraid  of  steam- 
ers, and  ready  to  scream  if  he  saw  the  smoke  of  one  winding 
up  the  river  two  or  three  miles  off,  insisted  on  going  inside  the 
rocks.  And,  he  being  steersman,  while  Hector  and  1  had  the 
oars,  he  guided  the  helm  and  turned  the  boat  in  one  direction 
while  we  were  laboring  hard  to  pull  her  in  another ;  the  con- 
sequence was,  our  making  no  way  at  all.  In  fact,  after  lather 
a  vehement  altercation,  we  ended  in  lying  upon  the  water, 
quite  stationary. 

Gracie  ceased  her  singing,  as  well  she  might  arm<J»t  such 
loud  voices.  She  looked  appealingly  to  Norman,  who  was 
stretched  his  length  in  the  bow  of  the  boat  very  cosy  indeed. 
He  waited  for  a  lull  in  the  storm  of  contention,  and  then  spoke. 

"  Pray,  boys,  do  you  ever  intend  to  get  to  Greenock  to-day  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Jamie. 

"  Then  you'll  reach  it  somewhere  about  six  p.  M.,  if  you  go 
on  at  this  rate.  Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  better  to  use 
your  oars  than  your  tongues  T' 

This  reproof,  given  so  cheerfully  and  merrily,  made  us  all 
laugh,  and  then  James  and  Hector  began  to  explain  theii 
several  wrongs  to  their  elder  brother.  I  fancy  I  see  him  yet; 


A  HERO.  d3 

the  old  fashioned  little  fellow,  sitting  listening  as  grave  as  a 
judge,  but  with  a  queer  twinkle  in  his  bright  eye,  that  made 
us  laugh  amid  all  our  quarrelings.  For  I  was  as  bad  as  the 
others,  thinking  it  very  shameful  that  our  pleasure  should  be 
spoiled  by  Jamie's  foolish  fears. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  he  at  last.  "  Father's  say 
ing  is  quite  true,  '  that  there's  no  doing  any  thing  without  a 
head.'  Every  kingdom  must  have  a  king,  or-everi  if  it's  a 
republic — a  president ;  every  expedition  must  have  a  leader, 
and  every  ship  a  captain.  Now  ours  has  no  captain  at  all ; 
that's  why  we  have  all  gone  wrong." 

Every  body  assented  to  this  fact ;  but,  as  was  to  be  expected, 
in  trying  to  remedy  it,  the  matter  became  more  puzzling  than 
before.  Every  body  wanted  to  be  captain. 

However,  James  seceding  from  the  contest,  the  choice  lay 
between  Hector  and  me.  Hector  seemed  to  expect  the  honor 
of  right,  as  being  the  biggest  and  boldest  of  the  crew,  until 
Gracie  gently  suggested  that  in  a  ruler  and  guide  prudence 
was  as  essential  as  courage,  and  I  was  much  the  more  pru- 
dent of  the  two.  Strangely  enough,  but  naturally,  in  the 
heat  of  our  contest,  nobody  seemed  to  think  that  the  best 
captain,  and  the  one  who  had  chief  right  to  the  honor,  was 
the  only  one  who  sat  quiet  and  held  his  tongue. 

When  the  war  of  words  grew  hottest,  Norman's  voice  was 
at  last  raised  ,  and  so  seriously,  that  we  heard  it  above  all 
ours. 

"  Hollo,  you  foolish  fellows  !     Look  ahead  !'' 

We  had  good  need  ;  for  there  was  a  steamer,  which  in  the 
height  of  our  uproar  we  had  not  noticed,  bearing  down  upon 
us  as  fast  as  ever  she  could  come. 

James  uttered  a  shrill  scream  and  let  go  the  helm,  which 
little  Gracie,  terrified  as  she  was,  had  yet  the  sense  to  hold. 

"  Pull  away,  Hector,"  I  shouted. — "  Pull  for  your  life." 

"But  Hector's  bold  cheek  had  turned  quite  white,  and  his 


34  A  HERO. 

hands  seemed  trembling  and  paralyzed,  so  that  instead  of  long 
strokes,  his  oar  only  made  ineffectual  splashes  in  the  water. 

*•"  Hold  still,  James,"  said  Norman,  in  the  loudest  and  most 
commanding  tone  I  had  ever  heard  from  him.  "Hector, 
give  me  the  oar !  Steady  with  the  helm,  Grade  dear ! 
Now,  Phil,  pull  away,  right  :nto  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
outside  the  Gauntlets. :' 

James  gave  another  scream  at  this  order. 

"  Outside  the  Ganritlets,  I  say.  Do  you  not  see  she's 
keeping  close  in  shore  ?  We'll  be  out  of  her  track  in  twc 
minutes,  and  then  we're  all  right." 

Frightened  as  I  was,  and  I  own  to  the  fact,  there  WAS 
something  in  my  eldest  cousin's  steady,  resolute,  and  perfectly 
•composed  manner,  which  gave  me  strength.  The  two  other 
lads  sat  quite  still  and  subdued.  Gracie,  pale  as  death,  but 
perfectly  quiet,  kept  her  eyes  firmly  fixed  on  Norman's  face, 
and  implicitly  obeyed  his  orders  about  the  helm.  He  and  I 
pulled  together  with  all  our  might,  and  in  about  three  minutes 
we  were  clear  of  the  steamer's  course,  and  far  into  the  middle 
of  the  river.  But  it  was  the  longest  three  minutes  I  had 
ever  known  in  my  life. 

"  Now,  lads,"  said  Norman,  when  we  all  paused  to  .breathe 
and  consider  the  danger  we  had  escaped,  "  you  see  what  you 
would  have  gained.  You  were  so  busy  squabbling,  and  I 
watching  you,  that  we  never  saw  that  boat  at  the  pier. 
Another  minute  and  she  would  heve  run  us  down." 

"  I  do  not  believe  she  would,"  said  Hector,  brightening  up 
"  Steamers  always  keep  a  good  look-out  for  small  boats.  1 
think  you  made  a  great  fuss  about  nothing,  Norman." 

"Look  there!"  cried  Jamie.  "She  has  passed  over  the 
very  place  where  we  were  lying.  We  should  all  have  gone 
to  the  bottom  for  sure.  I'll  never  go  in  a  boat  with  Hector 
again.  Oh  !  how  will  we  ever  get  to  Greenock  alive  !" 

Here  poor  little  Gracie,  who  had  sat  quite  calm  during  the 


A  HERO.  35 

danger,  now  that  it  was  over  began  to  feel  the  effects  of  her 
terror.  We  had  to  dip  our  hands  in  the  salt  water,  and  dasli 
a  little  on  her  face,  and  pour  down  her  throat  some  of  the 
ale  that  Norman  had  wisely  brought  with  us,  before  she  came 
quite  to  herself.  This  little  incident  subdued  us  all  very 
much,  and  I  even  proposed  rowing  back  ;  but  Gracie  would 
not  allow  it.  Only  she  hinted  a  plan,  which  I  believe  in  our 
hearts  we  were  all  thankful  enough  to  assent  to — that  for  the 
rest  of  the  voyage  Norman  should  be  made  sole  and  supreme 
captain. 

And  a  very  hard  business  he  had  of  it,  poor  fellow,  with 
such  an  insubordinate  crew.  The  helm  was  left  in  Grade's 
care;  it  pleased  her,  poor  child,  and  kept  the  duty  of  steering 
out  of  Jamie's  hands,  which  was  a  great  blessing.  Never- 
theless, he  or  Hector  got  it  sometimes,  and  as  one  always 
wanted  to  go  close  in  shore,  and  the  other  far  out  into  the 
river,  the  general  line  of  our  course  became  something  in 
the  shape  of  the  letter  Z,  which  did  not  exactly  shorten  the 
voyage. 

Nothing  further  of  any  consequence  happened,  except  the 
perpetual  warfare  about  steamboats,  in  which  Norman,  like 
many  another  ruler,  was  sometimes  forced  to  yield  a  little 
to  the  follies  of  those  under  his  sway.  Consequently,  once 
Jamie's  frantic  terrors  nearly  ran  us  aground  in  Gourock 
Bay  ;  and  again,  insisting  on  being  instantaneously  put  ashore 
— a  slight  impossibility,  considering  we  were  about  half  a  mile 
toward  the  centre  of  the  channel — he  sprang  to  the  boat's 
side  and  threatened  to  jump  overboard.  I  don't  know  whether 
the  threat  were  really  in  earnest,  but  if  Norman  had  rot 
stretched  out  his  firm  hand  and  pulled  the  little  fellow  in,  we 
should  have  been  capsized  in  a  moment. 

I  state  this  to  illustrate  the  truth  of  one  of  Norman's  wise 
axioms — vainly  impresed  upon  some  of  us — that  there  is  no- 
thing so  dangerous  as  cowardice. 


;6  A  HERO. 

Nevertheless,  with  all  its  alarms  and  disasters  that  da) 
stands  out  clearly  in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  most  delightful 
my  boyhood  ever  knew.  I  could  shut  my  eyes  now,  and  see 
the  broad  Clyde  spread  out  on  either  side,  so  dazzling,  yet  so 
sleepily  still ;  the  two  lines  of  shore,  the  hills  misty  with  a'ln- 
shine  ;  a  big  ship  coming  up  now  and  then,  exciting  our 
curiosity  and  admiration,  or  the  smoke  of  a  steamer  seen 
curling  far  off  and  coming  nearer,  until  we,  having  let  her 
pass  at  a  respectful  distance,  would  take  courage,  row  toward 
the  great  waves  she  left  in  her  wake,  and  there,  shipping  our 
oars,  lie  rocking  up  and  down  with  a  motion  so  pleasant  that 
even  Jamie  was  not  frightened.  It  was  a  delicious  day  ! 

("  And  nothing  happened  ?  You  got  to  Greenock  safe, 
after  all !"  inquired  one  of  the  nephews,  seeing  that  Uncle 
Philip  paused  and  was  growing  rather  prosy  over  his  pleasant 
reminiscences.)' 

That  we  got  safe  is  most  true,  at  which  fact  I  now  often 
wonder,  for  never  was  there  a  more  dangerous  expedition — 
dangerous,  not  from  itself,  but  from  the  various  conflicting 
wills  of  the  young  crew,  whom  even  the  sensible  captain  him- 
self was  not  able  to  rule. 

I  own  it  ivas  a  satisfaction  when  our  keel  grated  on  the 
Greenock  shore  and  we  lifted  out  little  Gracie  safe  and  sound. 
When  we  had  hauled  up  the  boat,  which  we  did  with  the 
assistance  of  a  stray  passer-by,  whom  we  informed  with  great 
pride  that  we  had  pulled  all  the  way  from  Dunoon,  Norman 
and  I  carried  Gracie  between  us,  in  the  fashion  they  call 
"ladies'  cushion."  Hector  went  before,  poising  the  oars,  one 
on  each  shoulder,  and  Jamie  followed  with  the  rudder.  In 
this  triumphal  procession  we  reached  the  house  of  the  good 
folk  with  whom  we  intended  to  spend  the  day,  and,  I  must 
say,  slightly  "  astonished  the  natives"  by  our  sudden  appear- 
ance and  the  story  of  our  exploits. 

We   performed  no  more  feats,  however,  as  we  were  not 


A  HERO.  37 

allowed  to  row  home  by  ourselves.  Our  small  crew  wag 
divided  into  two  boats,  and  in  the  early  evening  merrily  we 
again  set  sail.  We  had  no  more  hair-breadth  escapes  or 
perilous  doings ;  but  I  remember  we  had  a  great  deal  of  fun ; 
our  two  boats'  crews  running  races,  splashing  each  other  with 
oils,  and  hallooing  contemptuous  defiance  over  the  quiet 
river.  I  remember  too — though  faintly,  for  I  was  too  young 
to  take  much  notice  of  such  things,  except  that  I  had  quiet 
fancies  b§yond  my  own  age — I  remember  how  black  and 
grand  the  hills  looked  after  sunset,  and  how  a  red  ball  of  fire 
rose  out  of  the  river  behind  us,  at  which  I  was  half  frightened 
until  I  found  out  that  it  was  the  full  harvest  moon. 

Also  I  remember  Gracie's  singing  out  of  the  other  boat, 
(Hector  had  made  me  come  and  pull  with  him  in  our  own) 
— how  very  beautiful,  and  at  the  same  time  melancholy,  the 
voice  sounded,  especially  when  they  gradually  rowed  away 
and  disappeared  in  the  rnist  that  was  creeping  over  the  water. 
I  listened,  catching  at  times  a  fragment  of  Gracie's  singing, 
or  of  their  talking.  I  did  not  mind  so  long  as  we  could  hear 
them,  if  ever  so  faintly  ;  but  when  all  ceased,  the  river  seemed 
wide  and  dark.  They  reached  home  first. 

("Well  boys,"  said  Uncle  Philip,  abruptly  stopping,  "  I 
think  this  is  enough  for  to-night.") 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHEN  next  day  Uncle  Macllroy  came  back,  and  heard  01 
our  exploit,  which  even  now  I  can  not  help  thinking  was  an 
exploit,  considering  that  we  were  all  lads  under  fourteen,  arid 
none  of  us,  not  even  my  cousins,  had  had  much  nautical  ex- 
perience— when  my  uncle  learned  the  fact,  he  was  half  angry 
and  half  amused.  He  compared  us  to  Ulysses  sailing  west  in 
search  of  the  Fortunate  Islands,  Jason  rowing  to  Colchis  after 
the  Golden  Fleece,  and  various  other  naval  heroes  of  antiquity, 
with  whom  his  own  boys  at  least  were  quite  familiar. 

But  he  strictly  forbade  our  again  voyaging  to  Greenock,  or 
any  where  else,  without  the  parental  permission. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  admire  more  than  a  courageous  spirit," 
said  my  uncle,  "  but  remember,  boys,  that  fool-hardiness  will 
never  make  a  hew." 

This  observation  sent  me  back  to  the  old  notion  about  my 
cousins,  which  I  had  never  got  out  of  my  head,  though  I  could 
not  by  any  means  ibrrn  a  decision  on  the  subject.  This  last 
adventure  on  the  river,  wherein  Hector,  the  object  of  my  great 
admiration,  had  proved  himself  at  once  so  foolishly  daring  and 
so  dangerously  timid,  made  my  mind  more  uncertain  than 
ever. 

"  Pray,  uncle,"  I  asked,  with  desperate  resolution,  "  which 
of  my  cousins  is  it  who,  I  understand,  is  a  hero  ?" 

He  seemed  at  once  astonished  and  amused,  and  began  to 
laugh  so  heartily  that,  in  great  confusion,  I  ran  out  of  the 
room  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

The  same  day,  wo  being  still  considerably  tired  am]  stiff 


A  HERO.  39 

with  our  long  pull,  were  glad  enough  ta  do  nothing  but  take 
a  quiet  walk  along  the  shore.  The  first  place  that  we  went 
to  was  the  Castle-hill,  a  curious  ruin,  on  which  my  uncle 
lectured  very  learnedly  to  his  boys.  I  myself  found  the  con- 
versation dull  enough,  and  took  far  greater  pleasure  IP  running 
up  and  down  the  little  hill,  chasing  the  sheep  that  were  feed- 
ing there,  and  leaping  from  side  to  side  of  the  crumbling  gate- 
way, the  chief  remnant  of  mason-work  left,  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  my  precious  life. 

1  was  alone  too — even  Hector,  usually  my  associate  in  all 
kinds  of  fun,  had  for  once  given  up  his  frolics  to  listen  to  his 
father's  learned  dissertations.  For  Hector,  in  addition  to  his 
physical  advantages,  was  a  very  clever  boy,  and  was  being 
educated  for  a  minister.  When  he  chose  he  could  be  as  sedate 
as  Norman ;  and  I  sometimes  thought  his  intellect  was  the 
stronger,  certainly  the  brighter,  of  the  two. 

I  happened  to  come  behind  the  father  and  sons  while  they 
were  talking ;  it  was  about  the  olden  times,  when  this  dilapi- 
dated place  had  been  a  fine  fortress,  under  the  hands  of  the 
Campbells  of  Argyle,  and  another  ruin  which  Uncle  Macllroy 
pointed  out  down  the  shore,  Castle  Toward,  was  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  head  of  the  Lament  Clan. 

("  This  is  possibly  uninteresting  to  you,  lads ;  but  stay  till 
you  grow  older.  Information  is  always  valuable ;"  observed 
Uncle  Philip.) 

"  They  must  have  been  a  lot  of  brave  fellows  in  those  days," 
said  Hector,  his  eyes  brightening  while  his  father  related  some 
of  the  incidents  of  warfare  that  took  place  between  the  Clans 
of  Lament  and  Campbell,  :'  I  never  knew  they  were  such 
grand  heroes." 

"  Heroes  !  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  answered  my  uncle, 
thoughtfully  (and  you  may  be  sure,  boys,  that  I  listened 
attentively  as  soon  as  I  caught  his  first  word).  "  It  depends 
upon  what  consists  our  notion  of  a  hero.  Remind  me,  Hector 


40  A  HERO. 

that  I  read  you  a  passage  out  of  an  old  book  I  have,  whec  v , 
get  home." 

(:<  Now,  nephews,"  broke  off  Captain  Philip  Carew,  "  if 
one  of  you  will  bring  me  that  big  volume  there,  I  can  read 
you  the  very  passage  which  I  then  heard  from  my  uucle.  It 
made  a  great  impression  on  me  at  the  time,  and  rather  altered 
my  notions  concerning  the  'heroic  days'  of  ancient  history.") 

The  quotation  ran  thus  : 

"  In  1 646,  certain  of  the  clan  of  the  Marquis  of  Argyle,  having 
besieged  and  forced  to  surrender  the  houses  of  Toward  and  Escog,  then 
the  property  of  Sir  James  Lament,  did  most  treacherously  fetter  the 
hands  of  near  two  hundred  persons  of  the  said  Sir  James's  friends  and 
followers,  detaining  them  prisoners,  with  a  guard,  their  hands  being 
bound  behind  their  backs  like  thieves,  within  the  said  Sir  James's 
house  and  yards  of  Toward,  for  the  space  of  several  days,  in  great 
torment  and  misery.  In  pursuance  of  their  further  villainy,  after 
plundering  all  within  and  without  the  house,  they  barbarously  mur- 
dered several,  young  and  old,  yea,  sucking  children,  some  of  them  not 
one  month  old. 

"The  said  persons,  in  1646,  most  traitorously  and  perfidiously  did 
carry  the  whole  people  who  were  in  the  houses  of  Escog  and  Toward, 
in  boats  to  the  village  of  Dunoon,  and  there  most  cruelly  cause  to  hang 
upon  one  tree,  near  the  number  of  thirty-six  persons,  most  of  them 
being  special  gentlemen  of  the  house  of  Lamont,  and  vassals  to  the 
said  Sir  James." 

("  A  pretty  set  these  '  heroes'  must  have  been,"  observed 
Uncle  Philip,  looking  up;  "but,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh, 
remembering  the  Punjaub,  "  we  are  not  much  better  now.") 

"Others  were  likewise  barbarously  and  unchristianly  murdered  with 
dirks,  and  cut  down  with  swords  and  pistols ;  John  Jamieson,  then 
provost  of  Rothesay.  being  shot  through  the  body,  they  finding  some 
life  in  him,  did  thrust  several  dirks  and  skeans  at  him,  and  at  last  did 
cut  his  throat  with  a  long  dirk.  And  to  manifest  their  further  cruelty, 
they  did  cast  some  of  the  aforesaid  persons  into  holes  made  for  them, 
who  were  spurning  and  wrestling  while  they  were  suffocated  with 
earth ;  having  denied  them  any  time  to  recommend  themselves  to  God, 
although  earnestly  begged  and  desired  to  do  so  by  the  said  murdered 
persons.  Insomuch,  that  the  Lord  from  Heaven  did  declare  His  wrath 
•Against  such  inhuman  cruelty,  by  striking  the  tree  whereon  they  were 


A.  HERO.  *1 

nanged,  in  the  said  month  of  June,  being  a  lively,  fresh-growing  tree, 
at  the  kirk-yard,  of  Dunoon,  among  many  other  trees'with  leaves  5  the 
Lord  struck  the  said  tree  immediately  thereafter,  so  that  the  whole 
leaves  fell  from  it,  and  the  tree  withered,  never  bearing  leaves  there- 
after." 

"  Not  very  likely,  after  having  borne  the  unprecedented 
fruit  of  six-and-thirty  hanged  men,"  observed  Uncle  Macllroy, 
when  he  had  read  the  passage  which  I  have  just  now  read  to 
you.  "  But,"  continued  he,  "  this  is  no  matter  for  jest.  It  is 
a  pretty  specimen  of  what,  in  those  days,  was  generally  con- 
sidered heroism." 

I  started  ;  as  well  I  might. 

"But,  father,  surely  all  the  heroes  of  that  time  were  not 
as  brutal  as  these  Campbells,"  said  Norman  gently — he  had 
a  faculty  for  always  hinting,  or  insinuating  the  best  side  tc 
every  subject. 

"  No,"  answered  Uncle  Macllroy,  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  his  big  book  ;  "  here  is  a  story,  about  the  same  part  of  the 
country,  which  to  my  thinking,  quite  counteracts  the  former 
one.  I'll  tell  it  to  you,  not  just  now,  but  when  we  come 
home  from  our  evening  walk  ;  it  will  put  out  of  your  poor 
mother's  head  the  horrible  story  of  this  massacre  at  Dunoon, 
which  I  see  she  is  still  shuddering  at ;  and,  moreover,  will 
give  you  lads  some  notion  of  what  /consider  a  hero." 

This  was  a  brilliant  idea.  So  we  took  our  twilight  walk, 
talking  over  the  account  my  uncle  had  read.  Very  strange 
it  was  to  see  the  hills  looking  so  quiet  in  the  direction  of 
Castle  Toward,  and  to  climb  the  deserted  castle-hill  of  Du- 
noon, with  the  moon  shining  over  it.  How  different,  when 
we  thought  of  those  olden  days  '  in  which,  nevertheless,  we 
took  a  marvelous  interest ;  boys  do  so  delight  in  stories  of 
warfare  and  battles 

We  talked  the  whole  subject  over  thoroughly,  and  even 
walked  round  by  the  kirk-yard,  trying  to  imagine  where  stood 
the  marvelous  ash-tree,  and  4.o  picture  how  it  must  hav« 


42  A  HERO. 

looked,  with  the  six-ancl-thirty  hanged  wietches  da.ngling  in 
the  air,  amid  the  beauty  of  that  June  night,  in  the  year  1646. 

"  Norman,"  said  I  to  my  cousin,  as  we  passed  on,  "  do  you 
think  there  ever  was  any  body  who  deserved  to  be  called  a 
hero  ?" 

He  smiled,  but  made  no  answer ;  for  just  then  we  were 
entering  our  own  door. 

After  tea,  Uncle  Macllroy  told  us  the  story  he  had  prom 
ised  ;  a  true  and  well-authenticated  legend,  which  I  wiU 
here  relate — not  in  his  own  words,  as  of  course  I  can  not 
remember  them  exactly — but  I  shall  keep  close  to  the  facts, 
which  have  not  in  the  least  faded  from  my  recollection. 

The  Laments  of  Castle  Toward,  for  a  number  of  genera- 
tions, headed  the  most  powerful  clan  along  the  northern  bank 
of  the  estuary  of  the  Clyde. 

("  Most  of  you  English  boys  know  what  a  clan  is,"  said 
Uncle  Philip,  interrupting  himself;  "still,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  younger  ones,  I  may  as  well  say,  that  it  means  a  numer- 
ous tribe  of  men,  all  bearing  the  same  surname,  and  probably 
originally  sprung  from  the  same  stock,  united  under  one  chief- 
tain, whom  they  implicitly  obey,  continuing  their  allegiance 
from  father  to  son.  It  is,  in  truth,  the  Scottish  form  of  the 
feudal  system,  which  you  have  all  read  about  in  your  History 
of  England — except  that  the  Highland  retainers  all  bear  their 
chieftain's  surname,  and  mostly  claim  the  same  descent  from 
one  patriarch  of  the  race.  This  is  the  simplest  form  of  gov- 
ernment extant,  and  dates  from  the  earliest  times ;  in  fact, 
we  may  consider  good  Father  Adam  himself  to  have  been 
the  first  chieftain  of  the  first  clan." 

All  laughed  at  Uncle  Philip's  odd  conceit,  and  professed 
themselves  quite  satisfied  with  his  explanation.) 

Some  centuries  ago,  though  no  date  is  assigned,  the  chief 
of  the  Lament  Clan  happened  to  be  a  mere  youth.  His 
father  had  probably  been  killed  in  one  of  the  various  .squabbles 


A  HERO.  43 

9 

which  were  ccmrnon  then,  when  every  body  seemed  at  onoe 
to  fight  to  live,  and  to  live  to  fight;  when  riohody  thought 
of  working,  but  if  he  wanted  a  cow,  or  a  drove  of  sheep,  stole 
them  from  his  neighbor,  and  kept  them  till  his  neighbor  grew 
the  strongest,  and  stole  them  back  again. 

In  truth,  the  system  of  public  law  then  was  very  much 
what  it  is  in  boys'  schools  now — might,  not  right,  was  the 
general  rule,  arid  the  best  fighter  was  sure  to  cany  all  before 
him.  Thus,  the  Laments,  being  very  numerous  and  strong, 
held  the  whole  west  country  in  subjection ;  and  did  so,  until, 
as  you  may  remember,  in  that  black  year  1646,  the  Camp- 
bells of  Argyle  made  such  havoc  among  them.  But  the 
story  I  now  relate  happened  long  before  then. 

Young  Lament  was  on  friendly  terms  with  another  chief- 
tain, Macgregor  of  Gleristrae — I  know  nothing  of  Glenstrae, 
having  never  been  there,  but  I  believe  it  is  on  the  shores 
of  Loch  Fyne.  Macgregor  had  an  only  child,  a  young  lad, 
something  near  Lament's  own  age;  and  one  day,  during  a 
visit  that  the  latter  was  paying  at  Glenstrae,  the  two  youths 
went  out  hunting  together. 

At  night-fall,  being  far  away  from  home,  they,  with  some 
of  Macgregor's  retainers,  took  up  their  lodging  in  a  hill-side 
cave ;  as,  indeed,  was  and  is  the  common  habit  of  the  hardy 
mountaineers. 

During  the  night,  from  some  trivial  cause,  on  which  tradi- 
tion is  silent,  there  happened — what  alas !  was  likewise  not 
unfrequent  in  those  warlike  times — a  quarrel  between  the 
two  young  chieftains,  mere  lads  as  they  were — lads,  who 
nowadays  would  just  have  had  an  honest  battle  with  fists, 
fought  it  out,  and  been  friends  again.  But  in  this  blood- 
thirsty age  the  case  was  different.  Young  Lamont,  in  the 
heat  of  passion,  drew  out  the  dirk,  which  a  Highland  chief- 
tain always  wore,  using  it  indiscriminately  to  slay  a  wounded 
ieer,  or  to  destroy  an  enemy.  In  a  moment,  while  the  pas- 


44  A  HERO. 

siou  was  upon  him  (and  most  of  you  lads  know  what  the 
fury  of  passion  is)  he  had  stabbed  the  boy  Macgregor  to  the 
heart ! 

It  is  worth  pausing  a  moment,  to  think  what  must  have 
been  the  feelings  of  Lament — a  noble  and  generous  fellow  in 
the  main,  as  his  after  life  shows — when,  his  momentary  pas- 
sion spent,  he  stood  in  the  cave,  looking  at  his  playmate,  his 
merry  companion  of  an  hour  since,  now  lying  there,  a  dead 
body  and  nothing  more.  People  in  those  days  thought  more 
lightly  of  human  life  and  of  the  sin  of  murder,  than  we  do 
now  ;  yet  the  young  chieftain's  sensations  at  the  moment  must 
have  been  of  a  very  horrible  kind. 

Almost  by  miracle,  Lamont  got  safe  out  of  the  cave ;  which, 
had  the  Macgregor  clansmen  detected  him,  he  certainly  never 
would  have  done,  since  the  law  of  "  blood  for  blood"  was  very 
strong,  indeed  almost  the  only  law  those  lawless  times  could 
boast. 

He  escaped,  and  wandered  about  the  forests  for  many  hours , 
until  he  quite  lost  his  way.  At  last,  seeing  a  light  in  the 
distance,  he  made  for  it,  and  entered  a  house. 

It  was  the  very  home  he  had  quitted  that  morning — the 
home  he  had  now  made  desolate. 

Old  Macgregor  received  him  with  unaffected  cordiality, 
forcing  him  to  enter.  The  unhappy  murderer  must  have 
done  so,  scarcely  aware  of  what  he  was  about.  But  very 
soon  Macgregor  discerned  that  something  had  gone  wrong, 
and  knowing  well  the  fierce  passions  of  those  times,  was  at 
no  loss  to  guess  the  whole  truth  ;  .or  else,  which  is  not  im- 
probable, young  Lamont  confessed  all. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  a  sterner  honor,  a  more 
rigid  justice,  or  more  heroic  self-control,  than  that  evinced  by 
the  father  of  the  murdered  boy  toward  the  slayer  of  his  only 
son  ;  especially  in  those  times  when,  as  I  said  before,  the  law 
of  vengeance  was  almost  the  sole  law  existing. 


A  HE  110.  4* 

The  old  chieftain  not  cnly  shielded  his  wretched  guest  from 
the  present  fury  of  the  Macgregor  clansmen,  who  at  day-break 
returned  with  the  evil  tidings,  bearing  along  with  them  the 
body  of  the  poor  slain  lad,  but  he  himself  concerted  a  plan  to 
save  young  Lament's  life.  Whether  this  was  from  a  strong 
sense  of  the  sacredriess  of  hospitality,  or  whether  from  a  mer- 
ciful judgment  of  the  deed — the  same  which  in  our  days  would 
have  led  a  jury  to  pronounce  it  not  exactly  murder,  but  un- 
premeditated manslaughter — can  not  now  be  known.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  that  the  bereaved  father  acted  in  this  heroic  fashion 
In  the  middle  of  the  next  night,  he  rose  up,  ordering  Lament 
to  follow  him.  He  led  the  young  chieftain  over  hill  and 
forest,  far  away  from  Glenstrae,  down  to  a  place  called  Dun- 
na-ramfi,  on  the  shore  of  Loch  Fyne.  There,  were  ]ying  a 
boat  and  oars. 

"  Take  these,"  said  the  Macgregor  sternly.  "  Use  them 
for  your  life  ;  on  the  opposite  shore  is  your  own  country. 
Once  there,  let  the  murderer  save  himself  if  he  can." 

Lamont  look  the  boat,  with  what  words  of  gratitude  the 
history  does  not  relate ;  he  rowed  safe  over  to  the  other  side 
leaving  the  childless  father  standing  on  the  shore. 

Despite  the  unrelenting  pursuit  of  the  Macgregor  clan,  the 
Laments  v,  -<e  too  powerful  for  any  harm  to  reach  their  head. 

He  livec*  .safely  entrenched  in  his  own  Castle  Toward,  and 
grew  up  '.om  youth  to  manhood,  from  manhood  to  middle  age 
He  is  beiieved  to  have  made  a  just  and  generous  chieftain,  and 
the  clan  Lamont  flourished  under  his  rule.  Possibly,  the  awful 
event  of  his  boyhood  influenced  his  after  life  ;  but  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  his  character  can  only  be  judged  by  what  is,  in 
deed,  the  sole  way  of  judging  any  character,  in  history  or  tra- 
dition— his  recorded  actions. 

While  the  Laments  prospered,  the  smaller  and  less  power- 
il  clan,  Macgregor  of  Glenstrae,  was  fast  sinking.  Its  head, 


46  A  HERO. 

the  childless  father,  the  last  oi  his  race,  was  incompetent  to 
rule  ;  the  whole  clan,  impoverished  and  weak,  \vere  oppress- 
ed by  their  stronger  neighbors  on  every  side.  At  last,  by 
some  great  but  not  uncommon  wrong-doing,  Macgregor  was 
stripped  of  his  lands,  and  for  no  cause  whatever,  but  merely 
to  make  a  show  of  justice,  declared  a  criminal  and  an  out- 
law. 

One  day,  when  Lament  was  in  the  height  of  his  power, 
there  carne  a  poor  old  man  to  the  gates  of  Castle  Toward.  It 
was  the  unfortunate  Macgregor  of  Glenstrae,  who  could  find 
no  shelter  on  earth,  save  with  the  man  who  had  slain  his  only 
son,  and  whom  he  himself  and  his  whole  clan,  had  pursued 
with  unrelenting  but  useless  vengeance  for  many  years.  A 
curious  instance  of  the  strange  mingling  of  barbaric,  ferocious 
justice  and  chivalrous  honor,  which  prevailed  in  1he  middle 
ages. 

Lament  joyfully  received  his  former  enemy,  and  became 
as  a  son  to  the  unfortunate  father  whom  he  himself  had  made 
childless.  For  many  years,  Macgregor  lived  at  Castle  To- 
ward, treated  with  infinite  respect  and  tenderness.  When 
he  died,  it  was  under  Lament's  roof;  and  the  chieftain's  own 
hand  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  buried,  tradition  avouches, 
with  all  the  honors  due  to  his  rank,  as  the  last  Macgregor  of 
Glenstrae.  His  place  of  burial  was  until  very  lately  pointed 
out  ;  it  was  in  a  little  chapelry,  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  of 
-.vhich  a  few  relics  only  now  remain,  situated  on  the  farm  of 


11  Now,"  said  my  uncle,  when  he  had  finished  the  story 
which  I  have  here  repeated,  though  I  can  not  give  it  with 
half  the  force  that  he  did,  with  his  terse  impressive  language, 
and  his  strong  yet  pure  accent  (for,  as  I  afterward  found  out, 
my  Highland  uncle,  well  educated,  and  learned  in  many  lan- 
guages, spoke,  and  taught  his  boys  to  speak,  far  purer  English 


A  HERO.  47 

than  I  did  myself).  "Now,"  said  he,  turning  upon  us  ma 
bright  blue  eyes,  "  that  is  what  I  call  a  hero." 

We  assented  eagerly ;  but  the  next  moment  a  difference 
arose  as  to  which  chieftain  was  meant.  Some  stood  up  for 
young  Lamont,  and  others  for  Macgregor  of  Glenstrae. 

At  last,  little  Gracie,  whom,  during  the  story,  I  had  more 
than  once  seen  with  tears  in  her  eyes — she  was  such  a  tender 
hearted  little  lassie — Gracie  solved  the  difficulty  by  proposing 
that  they  should  both  he  considered  as  heroes. 

The  matter  ended  ;  Hector  and  I  resolving  to  walk  next 
day  to  the  farm  of  Towar&fkt-tffZft  ;  in  order  if  possible,  to 
find  out  the  grave  of  Macgregor — which  we  did. 

("I  wonder/'  continued  Uncle  Philip,  musing,  "whether 
the  old  chieftain's  manes — you  classic  students  know  what 
inanes  are — were  gratified  by  this  homage  paid  by  two 
school-boys  to  his  memory.  Well  !  it  only  shows  how  long  a 
truly  heroic  action  is  remembered  in  the  world.  All  the 
Lamonts  and  Macgregors  that  ever  tore  one  another  to  pieces 
in  blood-thirsty  conflicts,  have  passed  into  comparative  obliv- 
ion, from  which  is  only  rescued  the  memory  of  these  two — 
real  heroes !" 

Captain  Carew  looked  thoughtful  for  a  minute  ;  then,  ssce- 
ing  his  small  audience  were  all  dropping  to  sleep,  he  gave  an 
impressive  grunt,  and  ceased  moralizing.) 


CHAPTER  V. 

I  TitrNK,  that  the  brief  time  we  staid  at  Dunoon,  just  two 
or  three  weeks,  renders  my  memory  more  vivid  concerning 
all  wc>  did.  There  was  one  day,  that  with  its  termination 
(which  had  nearly  been  likewise  the  termination  of  our  lives) 
recurs  to  me  particularly  just  now. 

It  wa*<  the  day  before  we  left.  My  uncle  had  already  gone 
to  Glasgow  and  begun  his  classes ;  Norman  and  Hector  ought 
to  have  likewise  commenced  theirs,  only  my  aunt  fancied  that 
the  former  was  delicate,  and  begged  an  extra  week  or  two  of 
holiday. 

"  How  shall  we  make  the  most  of  this  last  day  T'  became 
the  general  question  ;  some  voted  for  boating — we  certainly 
had  grown  water-rnad.  But  Norman  suggested  that  we  could 
not  possibly  row  up  and  down  the  Dunoon  shore  all  day,  and 
we  were  forbidden  to  go  any  further. 

"  Besides,"  as  he  sensibly  remarked,  "  would  it  not  be  better 
to  tire  our  legs  out  first,  and  then  resort  to  our  arms  ]  I  pro- 
pose that  we  should  take  a  good  long  ramble  up  the  hills  all 
day,  and  have  a  nice  pull  in  the  evening." 

So  off  we  started  ;  Norman,  Hector,  James,  and  I.  There 
was  a  slight  squabble  previously,  as  to  whether  or  no  we  should 
take  any  lunch  with  us  ;  but  we  all  had  such  an  intense  aver- 
sion to  carrying  a  basket,  that  my  aunt's  entreaties  were 
vain.  However,  I  saw  her  quietly  put  a  slice  or  two  of  dry 
bread  into  Norman's  pockets  ;  every  body  \vas  thoughtful 
over  Norman,  as  he,  in  his  turn,  was  thoughtful  over  cver> 
one. 


A  HERO.  49 

We  started,  promising  to  be  back  in  time  to  give  Gracie  a 
sail — poor  Gracie  !  who  set  us  off  so  merrily,  and  yet  when 
we  reached  the  gate,  we  saw  her  looking  after  us  with  such 
longing,  wistful  eyes. 

Boy-like,  we  could  not  think  of  going  up  into  the  hills  by  the 
regular  path,  but  determined  to  ascend  up  the  bed  of  a  stream, 
a  beautiful  burn,  that  came  pouring  merrily  into  the  Clyde  at 
the  West  Bay.  It  was  a  remarkable  place,  the  water  dash- 
ing over  the  slate  rocks  that  formed  high  braes  on  either  side 
of  its  course.  I  hear  that  now,  when  Dunoon  is  so  changed, 
this  stream  has  been  bridged  over,  its  wildness  brought  into 
elegant  order,  and  an  English  chapel  of  the  fashion  called 
Puseyite  (though  I  don't  quite  like  such  nick-names  in  relig- 
ious matters),  built  on  the  top  of  one  of  the  braes.  Neverthe- 
less, no  modern  innovations  can  have  altogether  spoiled  that 
lovely  little  burn. 

Nobody,  who  has  lived  only  in  a  flat  country,  can  have 
the  least  idea  of  what  a  stream  really  is  in  the  Highlands 
Not  a  quiet,  babbling,  good-tempered  brook,  but  a  perfect  tor- 
rent, which,  be  the  volume  of  water  great  or  small,  is  equally 
impetuous.  It  comes  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  circling  the 
larger  stones,  dashing  over  the  little  ones  ;  divided  here  and 
there  into  half  a  dozen  zig-zag  channels,  or  again  joined  into 
one,  flow  for  perhaps  a  few  yards,  until  the  rocky  impediments 
break  it  once  more.  Mostly,  it  is  so  shallow,  that  you  can 
step  through  it,  but  by  places  it  sinks  into  deep,  still  pools 
under  the  hollows  of  rocks ;  tempting,  transparent,  crystal 
baths,  where  you  can  almost  see  to  the  bottom.  But  it  must 
be  a  very  venturesome  bather  who  would  put  his  foot  in  tliere. 

Such  a  stream  was  the  one  I  speak  of,  up  the  channel  of 
which  we  four  merry  boys  went. 

What  fun,  what  laughing  we  had  !  How  we  took  off  our 
shoes  and  stockings  end  slung  them  over  our  shoulders,  that 
we  might  the  easier  cling  to  the  smooth  stones.  How  deli- 

C 


DO  A  HERO. 

cious  it  was  to  feel  the  water  dashing  coldly  ovei  our  bare 
feet,  as  we  tried,  by  the  puny  resistance  of  those  said  feet 
planted  across  lesser  channels,  to  stop  a  current  that  was  as 
resistless  as  time,  or  fate,  or  any  thing  else  of  that  sort. 

("  Upon  my  soul  "'  cried  Undo  Philip  breaking  out  into 
the  only  asseveration  that,  soldier  though  he  was,  he  was 
ever  known  to  use.  "  Upon  my  soul,  when  I  talk  of  these 
things,  I  almost  wish  I  were  a  boy  again  !  But  it  won't  do. 
it  won't  do  !" 

He  continued,  making  an  attempt  to  laugh  :) 

No  felicity  is  without  its  vexations,  and  I  remember  we 
were  desperately  tormented  by  the  midges,  that  would  come 
about  us  in  myriads,  settling  on  our  faces  and.  stinging,  till 
they  almost  drove  us  crazy.  At  length  we  stuck  great  leaves 
of  fern,  or  bunches  of  heather,  in  our  caps,  with  which  tht 
little  wretches  contented  themselves  in  some  small  degree  ; 
though  still  they  were  all  but  insatiable.  (So,  boys,  it  is  worth 
while  to  remember  that  the  greatest  merriment  and  happi 
ness  in  life  is  sure,  more  or  less,  to  be  accompanied  by — 
midges  !) 

I  can  not  call  to  mind  every  portion  of  our  walk,  or  rather 
scramble,  for  we  scorned  any  thing  like  regular  locomotion, 
but  I  know  that  our  next  tribulation  was  something  worse 
than  rnidges.  We  got  into  a  bog. 

I  never  can  understand  why,  on  me untain  sides,  which  one 
might  naturally  expect  to  find  dry  yhere  should  be  such  a 
deal  of  bog  land.  To  me,  an  English  boy,  quite  unaccustomed 
to  such  a  thing,  I  own  it  was  not  over  pleasant.  So  unex- 
pected, too,  for  the  marsh  we  crossed  looked  pretty  and  green 
had  magnificent  beds  of  moss ;  with,  oh !  such  heather ! 
And  Gracie  wanted  some  of  both  to  take  home  to  Glasgow. 

On  I  plunged,  choosing  for  a  footing  the  greenest  looking 
mosses,  and  always  finding  them  the  deepest  in  water.  But 
T  was  too  proud  to  confess  the  fact ;  so  floundered  silently  OR 


A  HE1LO.  SI 

seeing  the  other  lads  far  before  me.     At  last  Norman  turned 
and  shouted  for  me  to  come  on. 

"Presently,"  answered  I,  putting  a  bold  face  on  the  mat 
ter;  "but  it's  rather  bad  walking." 

It  certainly  was;  I  being  just  then  busy  hunting  for  one 
of  my  shoes  ;  in  the  search  for  which  T  left  the  other  shoe  be- 
hind me. 

"  Come  on,  Phil !"  shouted  the  boys  once  more. 

"  I  can't,"  cried  I,  piteously,  despair  at  last  subduing  my 
courage,  "  I've  lost  my  shoes,  and  I  can't  walk  home  barefoot. 
Will  nobody  come  and  help  me?" 

"  What,  you  expect  us  to  go  back  all  through  the  bog !" 
Hector  replied,  from  near  the  top  of  the  hill.  "  Hurrah  !  I'rn 
out  of  the  moss  now,  and  it's  such  a  beautiful  view.  Make 
haste,  boys." 

Very  easy  that — with  some  dozen  yards  nearly  impassable 
between  me  and  the  enviable  hill  top,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
lost  shoes.  Except  that  I  was  ashamed,  I  couli  have  sat 
down  and  cried.  Once  I  thought  of  calling  for  Norman,  but 
then  I  did  not  care  so  very  much  for  him.  Hector  was  my 
chief  friend,  and  Hector  had  deserted  me. 

However,  when  I  was  standing  sulky  and  disconsolate,  look- 
ing at  my  stockings  all  tramped  in  holes,  and  my  trowsers 
wet  up  to  the  knees,  I  found  Norman  beside  me.  He  had 
come  all  the  way  without  my  asking  him. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  and  what's  to  be  done  for  you  1  Here 
has  Jamie  been  in  just  the  same  plight."  (Oh,  what  a  com- 
fort that  was  !)  "  Come,  cheer  up,  never  mind  !" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  1  proudly,  "only  if  I  could  but  find 
my  shoes,  considering  I  haven't  another  pair,  arid  am  not  at 
home  as  you  are."  And  I  began  to  think  mournfully  how 
rny  poor  mother  had  charged  me  to  be  very  careful  of  my 
clothes,  since  she  was  not  rich  enough  to  buy  me  more  for  a 
long  time  Horrible  visions  rose  up  of  my  having  hencefor 


52  A  HERO. 

ward  to  go  about  barefoot,  like  the  little  ragged  Scotch  boy& 
I  so  despised.      It  was  an  accumulation  of  woes. 

Perhaps  Norman  saw  I  was  sulky,  and  tried  no  more  con 
solation,  except  in  a  practical  way.  He  said  nothir-g,  but  cui 
a  long  stick  from  a  fallen  tree,  and  poked  about  in  all  direc- 
tions for  a  dozen  yards  round,  until  at  last,  after  infinite  pa- 
tience, he  found  my  shoes.  I  shall  never  forget  my  joy  when, 
he  jokingly  exhibited  them  one  stuck  upon  each  prong  of  the 
Icng  stick. 

"  Thank  you,  Norman,"  I  cried,  energetically. 

"  Stop,  Phil,  you  can  not  put  them  on.  See  how  soaked 
they  are  ;  they'd  be  the  death  of  you  !  Come,  off  with  your 
stockings  too  ;  put  them  in  your  pocket  and  sling  your  shoes 
over  your  shoulder ;  then  you'll  be  quite  sure  not  to  lose 
either." 

I  own.  I  somewhat  objected  to  this  plan. 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  it  will  only  teach  you  to  be  hardy.  Feet 
were  made  to  walk  on  ;  do  you  think  father  Adam  wore 
shoes  ?  Squeeze  the  wet  out  of  your  trowsers  and  roll  them 
up  to  the  knee;  then  start  off;  you  need  not  mind  the  bog 
now.  Bravo  !  that's  the  way  to  get  over  a  difficulty." 

His  cheery  voice  and  manner  would  have  encouraged  any 
body  to  do  any  thing.  He  made  so  light  of  the  trouble  too, 
and  bore  his  part  of  it — for  he  had  got  desperately  wet — so 
uncomplainingly.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was  about,  I  found 
myself  laughing  merrily — stepping  from  heather-tuft  to  heath- 
er-tuft as  he  told  me.  (Which  general  hint  I  throw  out  to 
all  bog-trotters,  that  where  there's  a  heather-tuft,  there  is  sure 
to  be  safe  footing.)  Very  soon,  we  had  nearly  passed  the 
region  of  my  woes,  out  of  which  I  had  moreover  contrived  to 
bring  a  magnificent  nosegay  for  Gracie.  At  last  we  stood  on 
the  hill-top,  and  looked  back  on  the  bog  we  had  safely  got 
through. 

("  And  that  bog,"  added  Philip  Carew,  meditatively,  "  was 


A.  HERO.  53 

not  the  last  from  which,  during  our  troubled  journey  through 
life,  my  cousin  Norman  has  brought  me  safely  out.") 

This  hill-top,  which  I  have  never  climbed  since,  nor  am 
ever  likely  to  climb,  afforded  a  scene  which,  boy  as  I  was,  I 
have  never  forgotten.  It  was  a  very  narrow  peak,  quite  bare, 
somposed  of  a  few  rocks  or  stones  thrown  together  like  seats, 
with  bits  of  heather,  moss,  or  lichen  growing  upon  them.  The 
peak  was  high  enough  to  afford  a  view  of  the  Firth  of  Clyde, 
from  Rothesay  up  to  Greenock,  or  possibly  further,  only  that 
the  afternoon  haze  was  stealing  on.  The  river  was  perfectly 
calm,  with  very  few  boats  on  it — there  was  not  a  sound  among 
the  hills — not  a  cloud  stirring  in  the  sky — every  thing  was 
as  still  as  death ;  although  it  was  such  bright  sunshine. 
There  were  a  few  sheep  feeding  far  below  us,  but  they  only 
ooked  like  white  stones  scattered  on  the  hill-side :  we  neve? 
saw  them  move. 

Somehow,  wild  boys  as  we  were,  the  scene  quieted  us.  We 
sat  on  the  hill-top  for  half-an-hour,  without  talking  at  all — or 
only  in  whispers.  Then  I  put  on  my  shoes  which  Norman 
had  managed  to  dry  on  the  hot  sunny  rocks,  and  we  started 
Dffdown  the  slope. 

Now  another  disaster  arose.  We  found  as  we  penetrated 
further  down  the  woody  side  of  the  hill,  that  on  it  were  feeding 
riot  merely  the  harmless  sheep,  but  some  Highland  cattle,  and 
little  Jamie  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  cows.  His  terrors  were 
this  time  not  quite  so  unfounded  as  usual,  for  I  remembered 
that  Uncle  Macllroy  had  himself  warned  us  to  be  careful 
\vhere  we  went,  since  there  were  sometimes  very  ferocious 
bulls  found  in  unfrequented  parts  of  the  hills. 

And  when  unluckily  a  black  cow,  rather  wild  and  shaggy- 
looking,  as  all  Highland  cattle  are,  being  possessed  of  an  in- 
quiring disposition,  walked  foward  a  dozen  yards  to  take  a 
mild  survey  of  James,  the  poor  wee  fellow  ran  off  screamin^. 
The  noise  disturbed  the  animals  still  more.  They  began  tc 


54  A  HERO 

look  at  one  another,  and  at  us,  and  really  even  I  giew  rathei 
uncomfortable. 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Hector  disdainfully,  "  who's  afraid,  even  if 
there  is  a  bull  ?  We  must  pass  this  way,  and  those  that  do 
not  choose  to  go  may  stay  on  the  hill-side  all  night." 

With  that,  he  went  daringly  forward  to  meet  our  foes,  and 
so  outraged  the  feelings  of  the  aforesaid  black  cow  that  I  really 
think  she  would  have  run  at  him,  but  happily  there  was  a 
broad  ditch  between  them. 

"  Hector,  do  not  be  fool-hardy  !  Come  back  !"  shouted 
Norman,  in  the  imperative  elder-brother  tone  he  so  rarely 
used  ;  and  Hector  came,  probably  riot  very  reluctantly,  leav- 
ing the  indignant  little  Highland  beast  to  watch  him  with 
ferocious  eyes. 

"  We  can  not  go  through  that  pasture,  it's  quite  evident," 
said  Norman. 

"  But  we  will !  Nobody  is  afraid  but  Jamie  ;  let  him  stay 
behind." 

"  Now,  Hector,  that's  not  talking  common  sense.  How  can 
we  leave  the  little  fellow  behind  ?  Whether  he's  foolish  or 
not  is  another  matter ;  anyhow  there's  no  conquering  his  fears.'' 

"  He  should  have  staid  at  home  then." 

"  So  I  think,  Philip  ;  but  since  he  is  here,  we  must  jast 
make  the  best  of  him.  The  question  is,  are  we  to  leave  him 
on  the  hills  all  night,  or  are  we  to  get  back  another  way  ? 
Try  it,  lads  ;  there's  great  fun  in  finding  out  a  new  road. 
Here  goes  !" 

He  plunged  into  a  small  copse  of  nut  trees  and  brambles 
whence  Jamie's  frightened  voice  was  heard  in  different  direc- 
tions, frantically  calling  on  us  all  in  turns.  Hector  and  I 
looked  at  one  another  rather  discontentedly  :  Hector  mutter- 
ing something  about  ''little  cowards  that  always  spoil  every 
thing," — then  we  followed.  Somehow  or  other,  whether  we 
liked  it  or  not,  Norman  generally  had  his  way 


A   HERO.  55 

It  was  a  great  consolation  to  find  lots  of  nuts  in  the  nut- 
wood, and  in  the  enthusiasm  of  hunting  for  them,  we  quite 
forgot  to  abuse  poor  Jamie.  We  compelled  him  to  cram  his 
pockets  with  our  surplus  nuts,  until  we  found  that  he  ate 
them  so  fast  as  to  be  any  thing  but  a  trusty  guardian  of  the 
spoil.  So  we  quarreled  and  made  it  up  again,  grumbled  and 
laughed,  shouted  and  sang — Norman  being  as  wild  as  any  o{ 
us  ;  until  suddenly  we  discovered  that  the  sun  was  getting 
low,  and  the  nut-wood  dark  ;  and  besides,  we  had  not  the 
dimmest  notion  where  we  were.  We  were  very  hungry  too, 
in  spite  of  all  our  nut-eating,  and  were  beginning  to  feel  tired 
arid  cross,  especially  Jamie.  He  had  just  proposed  our  going 
home,  when  the  unpleasant  idea  presented  itself,  that  we 
really  did  not  know  how  to  get  there. 

We  three  elders  had  a  serious  consultation,  while  Jamie 
sat  and  cried. 

"  Look,"  said  Norman,  "  there's  a  white  line  running  along 
the  foot  of  the  hills.  Now  that  must  be  a  high  road,  and  a 
high  road  must  lead  somewhere.  Suppose  we  strike  to  it,  in 
a  straight  cut,  through  bushes,  bogs,  and  every  thing.  It  will 
be  an  adventure  ;  and  as  to  mud,  why,  wre  can't  be  much 
worse  than  we  are  now." 

We  looked  dejectedly  upon  our  torn  and  dirty  habiliments, 
soaked  to  the  knees,  and  acknowledged  that  fact  at  once. 

"  Come  then,  before  it  grows  late  ;  let's  start  boldly." 

"I  canna,"  sobbed  Jamie,  "I'm  so  hungry,  and  nuts  are 
not  like  one's  dinner.  I'm  so  thirsty,  arid  we  have  not  seen 
a  stream." 

"  You  goose,"  cried  Hector,  "  do  you  think  we  are  not  all 
hungry  and  thirsty  too,  only  we  would  be  ashamed  to  make 
such  a  fuss  about  it.  Get  up,  James,  and  let's  be  off." 

"Stay,  lad,"  interposed  Norman,  catching  his  little  brother 
by  the  shoulder,  and  arresting  a  most  pitiful  and  disconsolate 
oul?ry  Then,  out  of  that  blessed  pocket  of  his,  he  drew  a 


56  A  HERO. 

great  lump  of  dry  bread — very  dry  indeed,  arid  warmed 
through  ;  but,  nevertheless,  eatable  bread.  Did'nt  \/e  eat  it ! 
with  most  hearty  gusto  too,  though  I'm  afraid  we  were  too 
hungry  to  say  "thank  you."  Except  that  Hceto>,  'iiaving 
finished  his  piece,  and  wanting  some  more,  which  »vas  of 
course  not  to  be  had,  slapped  his  brother  energetically  on  the 
back,  saying — 

"  Never  rnirid  !  you  are  a  trump,  old  fellow." 

"  Now  for  water;  there  must  be  some  hereaK .  ats,"  ob- 
served Norman,  and  we  went  a  little  way  and  listened.  Sure 
enough,  there  was  the  faint  tinkle  of  a  spring,  falling  a  drop 
at  a  time.  We  followed  the  sound,  so  indistinct,  that  except 
in  that  region  of  perfect  quietness  we  could  not  have  heard  it 
tall. 

"  Bravo  !  here  it  is,"  shouted  Hector.  "  Now,  Phil,  do 
you  wish  to  see  a  Highland  spring  ?" 

It  certainly  was  the  slenderest  rivulet  imaginable,  oozing 
drop  by  drop  out  of  a  moss  bed,  and  running  under  the  roots 
of  the  heather,  a  mere  thread  of  water.  But  it  was  water  ; 
and  it  grew  and  grew,  we  tracking  it  a  few  yards  by  the  sound 
of  its  trickle,  though  we  could  not  see  it,  until  at  last,  coming 
to  a  rock  a  few  feet  high,  it  had  to  make  a  great  leap,  and  in 
that  leap  suddenly  discovered  itself  to  be  a  stream, 

Oh,  the  delight  of  drinking  it  up  !  which  we  did  literally, 
for  it  was  such  a  tiny  runnel  that  our  mouths  laid  across  the 
current  stopped  it  up  entirely.  Moreover,  the  water  had  in 
a  slight  degree  the  peculiar  iron  taste  given  by  running  through 
bog  land.  Nevertheless,  we  thought  it  delicious ;  and  I  looked 
upon  Norman  with  as  much  respect  as  if  he  had  discovered 
the  source  of  an  important  river,  which,  for  all  I  know,  he 
really  had,  since  every  river  must  have  been,  once  upon  a 
time,  a  little  trickling  mountain  spring. 

All  being  refreshed,  Norman  gave  the  word  to  start.  What 
a  scramble  it  was,  down  a  sloping  thicket  of  nut-wood  and 


A  HERO.  57 

brambles,  a  descent  always  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees 
(you  boys  know  thus  much  of  geometry).  A  descent,  likewise, 
which  was  marshy  ground  the  whole  way.  Nothing  was 
heard  but  plunges,  tumbles,  and  outcries ;  yet  the  thing  was 
BO  funny,  we  could  none  of  us  help  laughing.  Except  Jamie, 
who  in  despair  gave  himself  up  to  his  fate  and  was  quite  sure 
he  never  should  reach  home  alive. 

''•  Well,"  said  Hector,  "  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  we 
can  but  stop  on  the  hills  all  night,  as  people  do  when  they  go 
deer-stalking.  I  should  like  it  very  much ;  it  would  be  just 
like  Robinson  Crusoe." 

But,  seeing  that  this  alternative  frightened  the  tired  Jamie 
more  than  ever,  Hector,  really  a  kind  and  generous  boy,  took 
his  little  brother  on  his  back,  and  they  two  went  floundering 
on  together. 

"  Good  news  !"  cried  Norman,  who  was  in  advance,  "  we 
have  come  at  last  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  the  end  of  the 
bog.  Here  is  a  stream,  which  must  run  somewhere,  and  I 
think  from  the  direction  it  takes,  must  run  toward  the  high 
road  which  leads  toward  Dunoon.  Jamie,  you're  clever  at 
the  points  of  the  compass,  tell  us  what  you  think  ?" 

Jamie,  thus  ingeniously  appealed  to,  stopped  crying  at  once, 
and  looked  about  him.  He  declared  he  knew  the  place,  and 
that  the  little  loch  we  saw  close  by  was  near  the  high  road 
from  Loch  Eck  to  Dunoon. 

"  He's  quite  right  ;  Jamie's  a  sensible  wee  fellow,"  said 
the  elder  brother  kindly.  "  If  we  track  the  course  of  thi% 
burnie,  we'll  come  out  all  right,  and  to  save  trouble  in  getting 
through  the  brambles,  I  propose  that  we  take  off  our  shoes 
and  stockings  and  wade." 

This  plan  of  aquatic  transit  was  greatly  admired,  and  cer- 
tainly the  bed  of  the  stream  made  a  most  admirable  pathway, 
quite  easy  compared  with  the  bogs  we  had  gone  through, 
We  performed  the  exploit  capitally,  with  much  laughing  and 


58  A  HEftO. 

fun,  and  without  any  disaster  ;  only  as  we  neared  the  high 
road,  we  heard  the  voices  of  some  Dunooa  ladies  passing,  and 
at  my  earnest  entreaty,  we  four  torn,  muddied,  bare-legged 
laddies  crept  under  a  bush  until  they  had  gone  by.  For 
which  act  of  timid  propriety  on  my  part,  my  cousins  torment- 
ed me  the  whole  way  home  ;  telling  me  I  had  always  lived 
nmong  girlg,  and  was  just  a  girl  myself;  until  I  furiously 
proposed  they  should  all  fight  me,  and  try. 

Somehow  or  other,  we  got  home.  Little  Gracie  was  sit- 
ting in  the  bow  window,  watching  for  us  very  anxiously.  My 
aunt  had  been  too  busy  to  vex  herself  much  ;  besides  it  was 
not  much  later  than  we  usually  came  home.  Returning,  w^ 
had  mutually  agreed  to  keep  our  own  counsel,  and  tell  none 
of  our  dangers  and  disasters,  that  night  at  least.  So  when 
after  tea  Gracie  innocently  asked  if  we  had  enjoyed  ourselves, 
and  if,  supposing  we  were  not  too  tired,  we  would  take  her 
one  last  sail  in  the  dear  little  boat  ?  it  became  necessary  to 
answer  yes. 

Looking  out,  we  found  the  twilight  had  gradually  melted 
into  the  most  lovely  moonlight.  Gracie  crept  to  the  hall 
door,  holding  by  Norman's  shoulder,  and  came  back  singing 
one  of  our  English  nursery  rhymes  which  I  had  taught  her, 
and  which  took  her  fancy  very  much — 

"  The  moon  doth  shine  as  bright  as  dav, 
Boys  and  girls  come  out  to  play, 
Come  with  a  rattle  and  come  with  a  call, 
Come  with  a  good  will,  or  come  not  at  all." 

fche  sang  it  so  prettily  ;  she  could  put  a  tune  to  any  thing  she 
liked — she  was  such  a  clever  little  girl. 

Well,  I  don't  remember  how  we  coaxed  my  aunt  to  let 
us  go,  seeing  it  was  eight  o'clock  at  night  ;  but  we  certainly 
did  get  leave,  promising  to  remain  out  but  a  little  while,  at 
which  promise  we  were  ready  enough,  being  much  tired. 

But  somehow  the  brilliant  moon  making  every  thing  as 


A  HERO  59 

clear  as  day,  the  river  being  very  calm,  and  our  boat  lightly 
laden  (there  were  in  it  just  Norman,  Hector,  Gracie,  and  1; 
— we  staid  out  longer  than  we  intended.  Gracie  was  sc 
merry  ;  singing1  at  the  very  top  of  her  clear  voice,  clear  as  that 
of  a  little  golden  wren  ;  it  made  one  wonder  how  such  a  vol 
ume  of  rich  sound  could  come  out  of  so  slender  a  throat. 

We  were  pulling  up  and  down  the  West  Bay,  listening  tc 
Gracie's  singing,  or  at  intervals  making  a  tremendous  noisy 
ourselves,  by  shouting  to  an  echo  that  we  had  found  out  at  a 
particular  spot  in  the  bay,  and  which  answered  us  from  shore 
in  most  unearthly  mimicry  of  our  words,  and  especially  our 
laughter  ;  the  latter  became  a  "  ha,  ha  !"  perfectly  demoniacal. 

Gracie  suddenly  stopped  us  with  "  Look  !  is  not  that  a 
t-'teamboat  at  the  pier  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  it,"  Norman  answered,  "  it's  too  late  an 
hour  for  steamers.  Yet  that  certainly  must  be  one  ;  I  won- 
der which  way  her  head  is.  I  did  not  see  her  pass  up,  so  she 
must  be  coming  in  our  direction.  Pull  away,  Hector  ;  Phil, 
take  the  other  oar  !" 

"  No,  no  !"  cried  Hector,  who  was  showing  oft'  his  skill 
with  both  oars  "  we  are  quite  far  enough  in  shore  ;  besides,  I 
would  like  to  catch  her  waves." 

"  Ah  do  !  and  let  us  have  a  nice  rock  on  them  ;  'tis  for  the 
last  time  this  summer,"  begged  Gracie. 

Norman  assented,  knowing  that  there  was  no  danger  in  the 
harmless  see-saw  of  the  waves,  which  his  sister  was  so  fond  of. 
In  fact,  there  was  no  time  for  refusal,  since  when  he  was  yet 
speaking  the  steamer,  which  in  the  uncertain  light  proved 
nearer  and  larger  than  we  thought,  had  passed  us  by.  For  a 
minute  ail  was  still,  and  then  I  saw  her  waves — great  long 
rollers,  hills  of  water,  with  deep  clefts  between — advancing 
slowly  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

"  Ship  your  oars  !"  cried  Norman,  who  was  looking  fixed!) 
at  the  rollers,  which  Hector,  sitting  backward,  could  not  &s*». 


60  A  HERO. 

"  Oh  how  nice  and  large  they  are  !"  said  Gracie,  quite 
fearless. 

They  were  indeed  large,  larger  than  I  had  ever  seen  ;  they 
came  on  huge,  steady,  resistless.  I  remembered  having  heard 
Norman  say  there  was  no  danger  to  any  boat  in  a  mere  swell, 
but  only  when  the  waves  rose  into  breakers,  curled  over,  crested, 
and  broke.  And  looking  at  these,  I  saw  slowly  gather  at  one 
ond  a  white  crest  of  foam. 

"  Steady  !  Keep  her  head  to  the  waves  !  Now  ship  your 
oars,"  said  Norman,  in  a  quick  whisper.  Our  eyes  met,  and 
we  both  understood — we  two  only — that  the  next  minute 
would  decide  whether  the  boat,  already  sinking  aslant  in  the 
watery  hollow,  should  again  rise  up  on  the  wave,  or  go  down 
to  the  bottom  like  a  shot. 

Boys !  it  was  an  awful  minute.  I  remember  seeing  Nor- 
man steal  his  arm  firmly  round  Gracie  ;  I  knew  what  he  did 
that  for.  She,  poor  child,  sat  smiling,  and  Hector  too.  It 
was,  I  say  again,  an  awful  minute  ! 

The  boat  plunged  down  head  foremost — and  rose  up  again  ! 
We  were  saved. 

Other  waves  came,  but  less  than  the  first;  the  little  boat 
rocked  harmlessly  on  the  swell. 

"It's  grand!"  cried  Hector.  "But,  Norman!  Philip! 
what's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"  Only  that  we  have  all  been  within  an  inch  of  our  lives, 
and  are  safe.  Thank  God  !" 

I  had  not  thought  of  that  thanksgiving.  It  made  me  feel 
that  Norman  was  a  better  boy  than  I. 

"  Now,  pull  ashore,  quick !"  added  he,  taking  the  trembling 
Gracie  in  his  arms.  Hector,  horrified  at  the  past  danger, 
obeyed.  We  rowed  hmis  and  landed  without  speaking1  a 
word. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

("•  WELL,  boys,  ar3  you  not  getting  tired  of  my  story  ?  It 
is  becoming  as  long  as  those  of  Dinarzade,  in  the  Arabian 
Nights.  Do  any  of  you,  contrary  to  the  Sultan,  want  to  cut 
off' my  head,  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  my  tale  T' 

Uncle  Philip's  question,  with  its  very  mild  amount  of  humor 
produced  great  merriment,  and  hearty  "  Noes,"  on  the  part 
of  his  young  audience,  who  settled  themselves  at  once  for  an- 
other "  night's  entertainment.") 

You  will  hear  no  more  Highland  adventures,  nephews, 
since  after  the  last  unlucky  boating  we  left  Dunoon  ;  which, 
I  now  think,  was  very  fortunate  ;  Hector  and  I  were  growing 
so  wondrously  daring,  or  rather  fool-hardy  (for  there  is  a 
mighty  difference  between  fool-hardiness  and  courage),  that 
otherwise  I  don't  believe  we  should  ever  have  quitted  the 
place  alive. 

Very  loth  we  were  to  quit  it,  nevertheless,  and  grumbled 
extremely  all  the  way  up  the  Clyde ;  especially  Hector  and 
I,  for  Norman  was  too  busy  looking  after  the  luggage,  arid 
making  jokes  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the  younger  children 
quiet.  We  used  to  call  him  "the  nursery  girl,"  from  his 
care  over  his  little  brothers,  and  his  great  popularity  among 
them  ;  which  popularity  Hector  and  I  rather  disdained  than 
emulated.  But  Norman  only  laughed  at  our  quizzing. 

The  steamer  went  lazily  between  the  narrowing  banks  of 
the  river,  very  much  like  an  overgrown  goose  trying  to  swim 
along  a  small,  dirty  and  ugly  stream — I  never  saw  any  \yatei 
so  muddily  black  as  the  beautiful  blue  Clyde  becomes  neai 


62  A  HERO 

Glasgow  ;  only  it  was  some  fun  to  watch  the  boiling  eddiea 
that  the  steamer  produced  on  either  bank  as  she  passed,  so 
extremely  narrow  was  the  channel. 

"  Really,"  said  I,  "  how  stupid  the  people  were  to  build 
Glasgow  here.  I  wonder  any  ships  can  ever  manage  to  get 
up  this  poor  dirty  bit  of  a  river.  We  should  never  think  of 
it  in  England." 

"  Very  likely  not,"  answered  Hector  with  wondrous  dignity  , 
"  but  we  Scotch  can  do  any  thing  any  where,  and  make  any 
thing  out  of  any  thing." 

Of  course  I  indignantly  scouted  this  fact :  but  I  half  begin 
to  think  there  was  some  truth  in  it.  And,  viewing  Glasgow, 
not  as  I  did  then,  with  prejudiced  and  limited  boyish  vision, 
but  as  I  should  now,  it  seems  to  me  a  wonderful  place.  Ugly 
as  it  is,  or  was  in  those  days,  it  keenly  strikes  a  thoughtful 
mind,  as  every  commercial  city  must.  One  may  liken  it  to 
the  roots  of  a  great  tree,  tangled,  dirty,  unsightly  fibres,  but 
which  nevertheless  stretch  out  far  and  wide,  often  wider  than 
the  branches,  and  upon  whose  strength  the  whole  stability, 
health,  and  beauty  of  the  tree  depends.  Therefore  I  have  a 
marvelous  respect  for  the  western  metropolis  of  Scotland,  axid 
say  with  all  my  heart,  as  says  the  motto  on  those  atrociously 
ugly  city  arms,  "  Let  Glasgow  flourish  /" 

Little  did  we  boys  then  care  about  these  things ;  we  onh 
thought,  as  we  landed  at  the  Broom ielaw  (which  I  remember 
I  had  unaccountably  supposed  to  be  a  bank  of  flowering  broom 
and  discovered  to  my  confusion,  that  it  was  a  thicket  of  masts 
just  like  St.  Katharine's  Docks)  we  only  thought  that  we 
were  coming  back  to  a  disagreeable  town  life — to  dullness 
and  school. 

"  Ah,"  sighed  Hector,  as  we  passed  the  ferry,  where  the 
ferryman  sat  in  his  clumsy  barge,  handling  his  still  clumsier 
oars:  "Ah,  that  is  all  the  boating  we'll  have  for  months  tc 
come  !  just  crossing  the  dirty  Clyde  and  back." 


A  HERO.  6i< 

We  both  pulled  melancholy  faces  and  thought  it  very 
hard. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  that  we  cam?  home — 1  now  called 
my  un?le's  house  home  quite  naturally— on  the  Monday  the 
boys  were  to  begin  their  "classes,"  for  here  I  found  every  body 
said  "going  to  classes,"  instead  of  "going  to  school."  On 
Sunday  night,  Hector,  Norman,  and  I  lay  awake  for  hours — 
we  all  slept  in  the  same  room,  they  in  their  bed,  and  I  on 
the  floor,  which  I  thought  great  fun.  There  I  heard  a  deal 
of  talk,  to  me  quite  mysterious,  about  "third  year,"  "fourth 
year;"  "dux,"  "  Doctor  Cowe,"  "  prize,"  "  examination,"  etc., 
etc.  In  the  midst  of  which  I  gradually  fell  asleep. 

I  was  awakened,  at  what  I  thought  an  unearthly  early 
hour,  by  the  ringing  of  a  most  unearthly  bell.  Norman 
jumped  up,  shook  Hector  into  wakefulness,  at  the  which  he 
growled  furiously,  and  then  performed  the  same  kind  office 
for  me. 

"  No  use  grumbling,  Phil ! — up  at  seven — prayers  at  half- 
past — breakfast  at  eight — off  to  classes  at  nine  !  It's  father's 
way,  and  must  be  done.  Tumble  up,  lad  !" 

I  did  "  tumble  up"  very  sulkily,  with  strong  intentions 
of  rebellion  against  Uncle  Macllroy.  But  as  soon  as  ever  I 
saw  him,  I  began  to  fear  my  bold  resolutions  were  all  thrown 
away. 

He  came  down  stairs,  his  hair  flying  abroad  more  than 
ever,  with  a  most  resolute,  business-like,  head-of-a-family 
look,  quite  different  from  that  he  wore  in  our  holiday-time. 
As  I  have  before  said,  Uncle  Macllroy  was  a  very  good  man. 
and  a  very  kind  man  ;  but  1  never  saw  any  body  look  more 
stern  than  he  could,  when  he  chose.  And  when  he,  in  his 
quiet  way,  issued  a  command — "boys,  do  so  and  so!" — you 
would  as  soon  attempt  to  jump  over  the  moon,  as  not  do  it. 

So  when,  after  prayers  and  breakfast  were  over,  the  lattei 
being  almost  »s  gravely  gone  through  as  the  former,  while 


04  A  HERO 

• 

Norman  and  Hector,  both  very  quiet  now,  were  busy  looking 
over  their  books — my  uncle  called  me  into  Kis  study,  I  did  not 
dare  to  refuse. 

An  awful  place  was  that  study,  all  lined  with  books,  and 
thickly  scattered  with  papers;  he  was  such  a  learned  man, 
though  fate  had  ordained  that  he  should  never  be  any  thing 
more  than  a  schoolmaster. 

"Philip,  come  here  ;  nay,  do  not  be  frightened."  (I  dare 
say  I  looked  so.)  "  Have  you  ever  been  to  school  ?" 

"  N-no,  uncle,  not  exactly!"  In  ."act,  I  had  gained  all 
my  little  learning  from  my  poor  dear  mother  (a  very  clever 
woman  grandmamma  was  in  her  youth,  boys.)  I  timidly 
stated  this  to  Uncle  Maellroy. 

"  Um — yes — I  see.     Has  she  taught  you  Latin  ?" 

"  A  little." 

"Delectus? — Csesar  ? — Ovid?" — my  uncle  never  wasted 
words. 

"  I'm  in  Virgil ;  my  mother  likes  Virgil  best." 

"  Oh  !  let  us  see  what  you  can  do,"  and  he  took  down  a 
great  musty  looking  ^Eneid,  all  mouldy  and  dogs'-eared  inside, 
though  most  carefully  bound ;  no  doubt  a  very  valuable  edition, 
but  it  only  frightened  me  the  more.  "  Now,  Philip,  begin." 

"  Arma  virumque  cano"  tremblingly  I  commenced,  pro- 
nouncing my  a's  short,  English  fashion. 

"  Arma(y)  vyrumquee  ca(y)no"  mimicked  rny  uncle,  shak- 
ing his  head — "  boy  !  that  will  never  do  here,  you  would  be 
the  laughing-stock  of  your  class.  There  is  not  a  country  in 
the  world  where  they  pronounce  Latin  so,  except  in  England 
Try  it  this  way." 

And  in  his  sonorous,  musical  voice — broadening  out  the 
a's  and  e's,  Italian  fashion — he  read  the  lines  : 

"Arma  virumque  cano,  Trojce  qui  primus  at  oria 
Italiam,  fato  profugus,  Lavinia  venifr 
Littora." 


A  HERO.  6c 

"  Now,  Philip,  go  on." 

I  was  obliged  to  do  so,  my  Saxon  pride  rebelling  at  ever} 
word.  Though  now  I  think  my  Uncle  Macllroy  and  "  every 
country  in  the  world,"  are  quite  as  likely  to  be  correct  in  theii 
notion  of  pronouncing  Latin  as  the  solitary  opinion  of  John 
Bull. 

("  Oh,  oh,  oh  !"  groaned  some  of  Uncle  Philip's  audience, 
stanch  Westminster  boys 

"  Well,  nephews,  the  thing's  not  worth  fighting  about," 
smiled  he,  and  continued.) 

Whether  or  no  I  passed  my  examination  with  credit,  I  can 
not  tell ;  certain  it  was,  that  my  uncle,  putting  away  the 
terrible  Virgil,  desired  me  to  get  ready  and  join  his  class  in 
the  High  School. 

Here  was  an  encroachment  on  the  liberty  of  a  boy  and  a 
Briton  !  I  absolutely  stood  aghast. 

"  And,"  continued  my  uncle,  not  taking  the  slightest  notice, 
"  since,  as  you  will  not  be  here  all  the  session,  it  is  useless 
your  taking  other  classes,  I  shall  give  you  evening  lessons  my- 
self in  whatever  I  may  think  you  require.  Now  away  with 
you ;  the  boys  will  show  you  my  class-rooms.  Remember, 
half-past  nine,  invariably.  I  never  excuse  want  of  punctu- 
ality." 

He  patted  my  head  ("  The  old  hypocrite  !"  I  thought)  and 
sent  me  away. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  All  the  nice  long  lounging 
mornings  I  had  planned,  to  be  spent  in  drawing  Gracie's 
little  carriage,  or  playing  jack-straws  and  cat's  cradle  with 
Willie  and  Wattie,  for  at  heart  I  dearly  loved  laziness,  all — 
all  were  put  an  end  to  !  I  regarded  my  uncle  as  a  terrible 
tyrant,  and  thought  if  any  of  my  cousins  had  been  the  "  Hero" 
rny  mother  alluded  to,  they  would  not  have  stood  it  for  a 
single  week.  I  had  some  notions  of  setting  up  for  "a  hero" 
nvself,  and  running  away  home.  I  had  even  got,  the  map 


66  A  HERO. 

to  calculate  how  far  it  was  from  Glasgow  tj  Surrey,  when  1 
heard  Norman's  voice  calling  me,  and  found  that  I  must 
make  up  my  mind  to  be  a  slave — for  one  day  more. 

''But  to-morrow,  to-morrow" — I  said  to  myself;  and  kept 
my  counsel  safe,  even  from  my  cousins. 

They,  honest  lads,  trudged  merrily  through  the  muddy 
streets,  for  it  was  what  malicious  strangers  call  "  a  regular 
Glasgow  day,"  which  sort  of  day  is  the  most  abominable 
specimen  of  weather  I  ever  met  with  any  where. 

"  Never  mind  it,  lad  !"  laughed  Norman.  "  Mud  never 
killed  a  body  yet ;  and  smoke,  Glasgow  smoke,  is  considered 
very  good  for  the  lungs.  'Tis  the  healthiest  town  in  Scot- 
land, father  says." 

"  Probably,"  said  I,  maliciously  ;  and  stumbled  on,  trying 
hard  to  feel  cross,  and  not  being  able  to  manage  'it. 

"  You'll  not  be  in  the  same  room  with  us,.  Phil,"  observed 
Hector,  as  we  entered  a  quadrangle,  where  stood  a  building 
looking  very  scholastic  arid  college-like.  "  Father  has  the 
third  year  this  session,  and  we  are  in  the  fourth  year." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  such  nonsense  as  third  year  and 
fourth  year  ]  Surely  I  am  not  going  to  be  set  to  learn  with 
little  brats  three  years  old  ?" 

"  That's  a  good  joke — go  it  again,  Sulky  I"  cried  Hector, 
in  great  glee.  But  Norman  explained  to  me  that  the  classes 
were  arranged  in  this  fashion,  according  to  the  number  of 
years  the  boys  had  learnt  Latin. 

"  As  Hector  said,  we  are  in  the  fourth  year,  under  Doctor 
Cowe.  Isn't  it  a  droll  name  1  And  he  is  such  a  funny  old 
fellow.  But — hush  !  here  he  comes." 

We  drew  back  on  the  dirty — yes,  the  very  dirty  stone  stair- 
case, which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  muddied  and  dirtied  by 
the  boys'  boots  for  ten  years — and  let  the  master  pass  by.  I 
could  draw  his  picture  now. 

He  was  a  tall  man.  in  a  rusty  black  doctor's  gown       He 


A  HERO.  «7 

Stooped  in  the  shoulders,  and  his  face  must  have  been  decided! j 
ugly,  for  I  remember  he  had  little  eyes,  and  a  large,  clumsy, 
under-hanging  lower  jaw,  which  he  had  a  habit  of  twitching 
nervously  from  side  to  side,  until  the  effect  was  not  unlike 
that  of  a  cow  chewing  the  cud.  Pie  was  rather  fat,  and  had 
an  awkward,  ungainly,  cow-ish  walk.  Or  else,  which  was 
not  improbable,  his  queer  name  set  me  off  at  rinding  these 
resemblances,  as  it  had  the  other  boys.  Altogether,  the 
effect  was  irresistibly  droll. 

When  he  had  passed,  Hector — no,  I  think  it  was  Norman, 
for  Norman  had  an  immensity  of  quiet  fun  in  him — slyly 
pulled  me  aside  to  show  me  a  cane  that  the  doctor  had  stuck 
in  his  right  hand  coat  pocket  underneath  his  gown,  which  it 
hitched  up  most  comically. 

"  He  always  carries  the  cane  so  ;  we  call  it  the  Cowe's 
tail.  And  doesn't  it  give  us  some  pretty  hard  switches  some- 
times I  But  for  all  that,  he's  an  excellent  fellow,  the  old 
doctor.  And  we  must  not  keep  him  waiting,  or  he'll  get 
cross." 

"  Here's  your  door  opposite,  so  go  in,  and  good  luck  to  you  !" 
said  Hector,  as  he  followed  his  brother  into  the  class-room  ; 
and  I  was  left  outside,  my  good-humor  quite  restored  by 
laughing  at  the  Cowe's  tail.  1  wondered  if  my  uncle  kept 
one  too  ! 

But  soon  these  speculations  ceased  in  the  trepidation  of 
making  my  first  entry  into  a  boy's  school — a  crisis  formidable 
to  any  lad — and  most  especially  formidable  in  such  a  public 
place  as  the  High  School  of  Glasgow. 

I  just  poked  my  head  in,  following  two  or  three  boys  who 
then  entered,  and  who  stared  at  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  strange 
cat,  which  indeed  1  much  resembled,  prowling  about  in  this 
forlorn  way.  The  class  was  evidently  not  begun,  so  I  popped 
out  again,  and  again  prowled  about  the  staircase.  I  might 
have  done  so  till  night-time,  without  gaining  courage  ior  a 


68  A  HEAD. 

secou.d  appearance,  had  not  Uncle  Macllroy  suddenly  come 
up  the  staircase,  and  seen  me. 

Now,  il'  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  my  uncle  liked 
to  see  in  young  folk,  it  was  punctuality.  His  rugged  face 
dilated  into  a  good-natured  smile. 

"  Hallo,  Phil !  here  already  ]  Capital  beginning  this,  and 
good  beginnings  make  good  endings.  Come  in." 

"  I — never  went  to  school — and — I  never  had  any  body  to 
teach  me  but  my  mother,"  whimpered  I. 

"  Poor  lad  !"  and  as  my  uncle  looked  at  me  I  knew  he  was 
thinking  of  my  father  that  was  dead — he  now  and  then  did 
look  at  me  thus,  with  a  remorseful  kindness  quite  incompre- 
hensible to  me.  "  Poor  little  fellow  !  Come  in  with  me." 

He  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  led  me  into  his  class,  setting 
me  in  a  quiet  place  by  myself.  Then  he  gave  his  gown  one 
shake,  and  his  hair  another — bent  his  brows,  and  set  his  lips 
sternly  together — altogether  putting  on  an  appearance  quite 
worthy  of  a  pedagogue. 

I  think  Uncle  Macllroy  must  have  been  the  best  teacher 
of  boys  imaginable.  He  never  thrashed — he  rarely  scolded 
at  least  not  in  the  passionate  manner  that  many  schoolmasters 
do  ;  but  there  was  something  in  his  rigid  inflexible  will  that 
did  the  work  both  of  tongue  and  cane.  It  seems  to  me  now 
perfectly  marvelous,  the  way  in  which  he  reduced  such  con- 
flicting elements  to  discipline  and  order.  He  could  doubtless 
have  ruled  a  kingdom  as  he  ruled  that  little  sovereignty,  his 
class.  He  governed  it  thus  well,  because,  like  all  good  rulers, 
he  governed  that  very  difficult  subject — himself.  His  temper, 
truth,  conscientiousness,  never  failed. 

Since  even  in  my  boyish  imagination  one  of  the  chief  qual- 
ities of  a  hero  was  to  know  how  to  rule,  I  seeing,  as  a  quick 
child  would  at  once  see,  how  well  he  ruled  his  scholars,  began 
to  consider  whether  my  uncle  himself  was  riot  something  of 
my  grand  object  of  search — a  Hero.  So  by  noon  I  had 


A  HERO.  69 

determined  to  put  off  my  running  away  to  England  for  an 
indefinite  time,  in  order  to  wait  and  judge.  Especially  as 
having  very  easy  tasks  this  day,  merely  to  stand  up  and  con- 
strue a  few  lines  of  Latin  in  my  turn,  I  got  through  the  class- 
hours  more  comfortably  than  I  had  expected. 

At  mid-day  I  was  set  free,  and  reached  home  somehow, 
having  spent  an  hour  or  two  rather  amusingly  than  other- 
wise, in  losing  rny  way  and  finding  it  again.  Then  I  drew 
little  Gracie  about  in  her  chaise,  and  played  baby-play  with 
Willie  and  Wattie  till  they  quarreled  with  one  another,  and 
afterward  both  took  to  quarreling  with  me. 

By  evening  I  was  so  thoroughly  tired  of  doing  nothing,  that 
when  the  two  elder  boys  set  to  their  books,  and  Jamie,  the 
cleverest  and  busiest  little  bee  imaginable,  set  to  his,  I  felt  not 
so  much  ill-used  as  I  had  expected  by  being  called  into  the 
study,  and  taught  there  for  an  hour  or  two.  Of  course  I  still 
considered  myself  rather  a  victim,  and  if  I  did  go  willingly 
and  pay  some  slight  attention  to  the  teaching,  it  was  with  the 
firm  conviction  that  the  obliged  party  was,  not  myself,  but 
Uncle  Macllroy. 

("  I  don't  exactly  think  so  now,"  said  Captain  Philip,  closing 
h>  tale  for  the  night.) 


CHAPTER  m. 

THUS  me  nrst  day  of  rny  experience  at  the  High  School 
passed  off'  pleasantly  enough.  But  things  could  not  go  on  so 
smoothly  forever.  It  was  out  of  the  bounds  of  possibility,  and 
out  of  the  nature  of  boys. 

My  first  trouble  came  upon  me  on  the  third  day.  Tired 
of  going  home  to  spend  a  lazy  afternoon,  I  had  sauntered 
about  the  quadrangle  that  formed  the  playground,  in  the  hope 
of  getting  some  sort  of  a  game  with  somebody. 

I  got  a  much  more  unpleasant  game  than  I  thought — a 
sort  of  practical  "Hunt  the  Hare" — in.  which  I  myself  per- 
formed the  part  of  the  unlucky  animal. 

It  happened  thus.  I  had  on,  as  was  the  custom  of  boys 
then  to  wear,  at  least  in  the  south,  a  beaver  hat  like  a  man's. 
I  well  remember  the  extreme  pride  with  which  my  mother 
bought  it,  taking  me  into  a  hat-shop  and  choosing  it  with 
great  care  ;  sighing  the  while,  for  she  said  it  made  her  feel 
what  a  man  I  was  growing,  and  that  wearing  it  I  looked 
more  than  ever  like  my  poor  father.  She  little  thought  that 
the  unlucky  hat  would  prove  so  fatal  a  casus  belli,  and  come 
to  such  an  ill  end. 

My  cousins  had  jestingly  warned  me  that  the  wearing  of 
it  was  dangerous,  since  the  High  School  boys  had  a  mortal 
objection  to  any  thing  but  Glengarrys.  But  it  was  quite  im- 
possible that  I  cou.d  constrain  my  Saxon  liberty  to  wearing  a 
Scotch  bonnet,  so  my  beaver  stood  its  ground.  Once  or  twice 
I  noticed  it  eyed  with  a  cruel  smile,  as  it  hung  on  its  peg  of 
dignity,  the  only  hat  in  the  class ;  but  that  was  all. 


A  HERO.  71 

However,  on  tris  Wednesday,  when  for  the  first  time  I 
joined  my  comrades  in  the  playground,  the  hat's  misfortunes 
began. 

First,  there  was  thrown  from  behind  a  wall  a  handful  oi 
mud,  which  lodged  on  the  brim.  Next,  somebody  shot  a 
sharp  pebble,  which  made  a  dent  in  the  crown.  Thirdly, 
some  person  or  persons  unknown,  quietly  stole  behind  and 
knocked  it  over  my  eyes. 

At  this,  I  grew  into  a  furious  passion,  in  the  midst  of  which 
a  little  lad  snatched  my  hat  away  altogether,  "  to  keep  my 
head  cool,"  as  he  waggishly  hinted.  The  next  minute  I  saw 
it  stuck  on  the  handle  of  a  whip,  and  in  this  manner  passed 
from  hand  to  hand  through  a  crowd  of  jeering  boys.  The 
fifth  indignity  was  to  batter  in  the  crown,  the  sixth  to  turn  it 
inside  out,  the  seventh  and  last  was  to  stick  it  up  on  the  top 
of  a  wall  and  shoot  it  with  pins  from  a  cross-bow. 

By  this  time  my  rage  was  unutterable,  but  its  impression 
was  harmless  enough,  as  a  great  gaunt  lad  held  my  arms 
pinioned  behind  me. 

"Hollo,  what  are  you  doing  to  the  wee  fellow?"  cried 
Hector's  loud  voice,  and  frantically  I  writhed  myself  out  of 
the  big  lad's  arms  into  those  of  my  cousin. 

"  I  will  have  rny  hat.  They've  stolen  and  spoilt  it.  I'll 
be  revenged.  I'll  bring  you  all  up  before  the  mayor." 

"We  hae  nae  mares  here,  but  ye  may  ask  at  the  Cowe,'' 
answered  a  lad,  which  atrocious  joke  was  received  with  shouts 
of  applause,  in  the  which  my  little  burst  of  indignation  \vas 
completely  drowned.  Even  Hector  began  to  laugh  as  loud  as 
any  of  them,  and  in  so  doing  imperceptibly  slid  from  my  side. 
When  a  joke  goes  against  a  fellow,  it's  rather  bad  for  his  cause. 

I  sought  refuge  with  Norman.  "Help  me,  do  help  me. 
Get  me  my  hat  again — my  poor  hat,  that  cost  my  mother  so 
much  money." 

It   was  an    unhippy   allusiot       Every   body   maliciousb 


72  A  HERO. 

wanted  to  know  the  precise  amount  of  cash  my  mother  paid 
and  how  much  she  had  left  ?  and  all  that  sort  of  thiiif.  Sorno 

C5 

even  attacked  my  two  cousins  on  the  subject  and  made  a  few 
contemptuous  allusions  to  "  Auntie." 

Then  Hector's  spirit  rose  up  for  the  honor  of  the  family. 
"  I'll  tell  you  what,  lads,  if  you  don't  let  Philip  Carew  alone, 
and  give  him  his  hat  again,  I'll  fight  the  four  biggest  of  you, 
turn  and  turn  about." 

This,  I  do  believe,  was  exactly  what  he  wished,  for  Hectoi 
was  the  stock  pugilist  of  the  school,  and  fought  battles  for  any 
body  or  any  thing,  quite  in  amateur  fashion.  Nevertheless. 
I  thought  it  very  kind  of  him  to  champion  me,  and  loved  and 
admired  him  very  much. 

Norman,  after  a  dissuasive  word  or  two,  ceased  to  interfere 
He  was  either  too  quiet  or  too  wise  to  go  right  against  the  storm. 
He  only  staid  close  by  to  see  that  his  brother  had  fair  play. 

It  was  agreed  that  the  combats  should  be  wrepOua  matches, 
not  battles  with  fists,  lest  black  eyes  or  bruised  .io-.es  should 
betray  any  thing  to  parents  ;  and  so  like  a  young  Ar.tsDos,  or 
else  like  his  great  Trojan  namesake,  did  Hector  begin  the  fray. 
He  was  a  capital  wrestler,  strong,  active,  bold  ;  I  never  saw 
his  like.  Now  I  became  quite  certain  that  I  had  found  my 
"hero!"  He  laid  the  first  combatant  prostrate  in  the  mud, 
was  himself  laid  prostrate  by  the  second,  but  rose  up  fresher 
than  ever,  and  returned  the  compliment.  The  third  lad 
skulked  crying  from  the  field,  and  with  the  fourth  Hector  was 
go  well  matched  that  the  battle  at  length  ceased,  neither 
being  victor,  but  both  giving  up  from  the  very  unwaiiike  fact 
that  it  was  getting  near  dinner-time. 

For  this  all-important  reason,  when  Hector  had  received  a 
round  or  two  of  applause,  the  play-ground  became  gradually 
thinned,  the  circle  which  had  gathered  round  the  fightera 
slowly  broke  up,  and  the  grand  bone  of  contention,  having 
been  kicked  about  pretty  well,  at  last  lay  unnoticed  in  a  COT- 


A  HERO.  73 

ner.  In  this,  as  in  many  a  more  important  war,  the  original 
matter  of  dispute  soon  came  to  be  altogether  forgotten.  Even 
[  myself,  in  my  enthusiasm  for  the  fighting,  had  ceased  to 
remember  my  unlucky  hat,  and  stood  composedly  in  the  driz- 
zling rain,  bareheaded,  until  I  uegan  to  sneeze. 

"  What's  to  be  done  with  the  boy  ?  he  is  not  so  hardy  as 
we,"  said  Norman  kindly. 

"  Oh,  let  him  take  my  bonnet  to  run  home  in,"  answered 
ny  "  hero,"  throwing  it  toward  me  with  an  indifferent  yet 
patronizing  air.  "  Well,  Phil,  are  you  not  very  much  obliged 
to  me  for  fighting  your  battles  V 

I  said  "  yes,"  though  I  thought  he  need  not  have  asked  the 
question.  And  somehow  I  let  the  bonnet  lie,  and  tried  to 
pick  up  and  set  to  rights  my  poor  battered  hat. 

It  was  no  use,  the  thing  was  a  perfect  scarecrow. 

"  Nay,  let  it  be,  and  put  on  Hector's,  since  he  offers  it. 
You  can't  go  through  the  streets  bareheaded,  the  folk  would 
'augh  at  you." 

Hector  turned  suddenly  round.  "  By-the-by,  I  never 
thought  of  that.  Hey  there  !  I  can  not  spare  my  bonnet, 
old  fellow."  He  picked  it  up  again  and  set  it  firmly — not  on 
my  head,  but  his  own. 

"  Nay,"  said  Norman,  as  I  began  to  sneeze  worse  than 
ever,  for  the  rain  had  thoroughly  soaked  my  hair,  "  Phil  needs 
it  worse  than  you  ;  and  you  being  a  bigger  boy,  would  get 
through  the  streets  better,  even  if  you  were  tormented  a  little. 
They  wouldn't  dare  to  do  it  long.  Think  again,  Hector." 

But  Hector,  the  bold  fighter,  could  not  face  the  humiliation 
of  walking  home  without  his  hat.  He  grew  angry,  and  told 
his  brother  "  to  practice  what  he  preached."  I  protested 
against  having  cither's  cap,  for  I  did  not  like  tc  sec  Hector 
cross  with  me,  after  having  defended  my  cause  so  bravely. 

"  Here,  take  this,  and  we'll  see  what  is  to  be  done,"  cried 
Norman,  throwing  me  his  bonnet  and  running  away. 

D 


74  A  HERO. 

"  He's  only  showing  off,  he'll  be  back  directly,"  muttered 
Hector. 

But  he  did  not  come  back.  We  waited  a  little  while,  and 
then,  hunger  being  strong  upon  us,  we  started  home  both 
rather  silent.  Just  turning  the  corner  of  the  street  where 
Uncle  Macllroy  lived,  we  met  Norman. 

He  was  walking  along,  the  heavy  rain  pouring  on  his  head, 
and  running  down  his  neck  in  little  streams.  His  cheeks 
were  very  hot,  and  his  manner  hurried,  for  there  was  a  tribe 
of  ragged  urchins  at  his  heels,  jeering  and  pointing  after  him, 
calling  him  "  bareheid,"  "  gowk,"  and  "  daft  laddie."  And 
poor  Norman  was  naturally  such  a  shy,  timid  boy,  painfully 
sensitive  to  observation.  What  he  must  have  suffered  in 
that  hour's  walk  ! 

Hector  and  I  ran  to  him,  I  full  of  tenderness  and  contrition, 
Hector  muttering  something  about  "  thrashing  all  the  little 
vagabonds  within  an  inch  of  their  lives."  But  that  proceed- 
ing was  stopped  by  an  unlucky,  or  lucky  conjuncture. 

Close  behind  us,  wearing  his  most  serious  look,  appeared 
Uncle  Macllroy. 

;'  What's  all  this.     Tell  the  truth." 

We  obeyed,  Hector  being  the  foremost  to  tell  it,  and  to  his 
own  disadvantage  likewise ;  for  when  his  feelings  were  touched 
he  was  a  generous  fellow. 

Uncle  Macllroy  heard  in  silence.  He  did  not  even  take 
exception  to  the  matter  of  the  fighting,  which  Hector  had 
modestly  dwelt  upon  very  lightly.  All  he  said  was  said  to 
Norman,  in  a  tone  so  gentle  that  we  were  quite  startled. 

"  My  boy,  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  the  best  courage 
of  all,  moral  courage" 

Stooping  a  little,  he  put  his  arm  through  that  of  his  eldest 
son,  who  stood  by,  blushing  and  agitated  as  a  girl — and  so 
walked  with  him  up  to  their  own  door. 

I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  Norman  look  so  happy  or  so  proud 


CHAPTER  V11I. 

("  Bo  is,"  said  Captain  Philip  Carew,  in  answer  to  general 
request,  "  do  you  expect  me  to  tell  you  circumstantially  what 
happened  day  by  day  during  the  time  I  was  at  Glasgow  ? 
Because,  if  you  do,  I  can  only  say  it  is  an  impossibility  Re- 
member, all  this  happened  twenty  odd  years  ago,  and  if  I  had 
not  the  clearest  memory  imaginable,  you  would  not  have  the 
story  so  respectable  as  it  is.  Even  now,  I  have  a  strong  con- 
viction that  I  am  painting  things  not  exactly  as  I  saw  them 
then — for  boys  have  little  observation — but  as  I  afterward  by 
comparison  found  out  they  were,  or  must  have  been.  Are 
you  content  to  receive  matters  so,  or  shall  I  stop  ?" 

"  No — no — no — "  was  the  outcry,  though  there  came  a 
very  faint  deprecatory  "  yes"  from  some  person  or  persons  un- 
known. 

"  The  Noes  have  it,  as  they  say  in  the  House  of  Commons," 
cried  Uncle  Philip.  "  So  here  begins.") 

Our  days  at  Uncle  Macllroy's  well-ordered  house  passed  so 
exactly  alike,  that  the  history  of  one  will  do  for  all. 

We  rose  at  seven — then  lessons,  prayers,  breakfast,  classes, 
dinner,  play  (not  much,  alas !),  tea,  lessons,  bed.  After  bed- 
time came  the  hour  of  chatter  and  forbidden  fun,  tempered 
with  serious  discourse  between  the  brothers,  with  whom  it 
was  a  very  anxious  time. 

Now,  though  of  course  I  had  never  been  in  the  "  fourth 
year,"  from  constant  hearing  about  it,  I  knew  by  heart  every 
ciember  of  "our  class,"  his  capabilities,  and  his  chance  of 
prizes. 

First  there  came  Andrew  Caird,  the  undoubted  Dux- 


7«  A  HERO. 

nobody  ever  dreamed  of  contesting  that  point.  Next  to  him 
were  Norman  and  Hector  Macllroy,  who  usually  "  ran  neck 
and  neck,"  as  sportsmen  say ;  the  elder's  diligence  still  keep- 
ing a  trifle  ahead,  in  spite  of  the  younger's  brighter  parts. 
But,  latterly,  the  lazy  Hector  had  absolutely  suffered  his  next 
class-mate,  John  Gordon,  to  get  his  place  sometimes,  whence 
came  sore  heart-burnings  and  fears. 

These  four  were  all  ministers'  sons.  I  think  I  said  before, 
that  Uncle  Macllroy  had  been  brought  up  to  the  ministry 
though  for  some  years  he  had  had  no  church.  The  foui 
"  ministers'  boys"  were  the  pride  of  the  whole  "  year."  They 
always  kept  together  at  the  head  of  their  class,  and  held 
slightly  aloof  from  the  lower  lads,  whose  names  I  don't  re- 
member, as  they  went  by  the  general  term  of  "the  other 
fellows."  Nobody  ever  thought  of  them  in  connection  with 
prizes.  All  the  excitement,  all  the  doubt,  contest,  and  dread, 
lay  with  the  ministers'  boys. 

Now  I,  who  had  never  known  any  thing  of  life  at  a  public 
school,  still  less  at  a  public  school  in  Scotland,  was  at  first 
driven  "  clean  wud,"  as  my  northern  cousins  would  observe, 
by  the  constant  talk  about  "  our  examinations,"  "  our  prize 
givings,"  &c.  &c. 

"  Can't  you  make  a  little  less  fuss  about  it,  and  let  a  poor 
fellow  go  to  sleep,"  cried  I  one  night  from  my  shake-down  on 
the  floor.  "  What  does  it  matter  who  gets  the  prize  ?" 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?"  echoed  Hector  indignantly 
•'  When  all  Glasgow  comes  to  look  at  us,  or  may  come  if  they 
like — when  we  have  to  walk  up  in  face  of  every  body,  and 
the  Lord  Provost  himself  gives  us  the  prize  !" 

1  own,  the  latter  fact  struck  my  youthful  imagination.  I 
remembered  having  once  seen  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  being 
greatly  awed  thereby.  The  idea  of  receiving  a  book  from  the 
hands  of  a  live  Lord  Provost,  only  a  degree  lower  than  u 
Lord  Mayor,  seemed  something  very  grand  indeed 


A  HERO.  77 

So  I  only  said  "  O  !" — a  great  round  O  of  enormous  venera- 
tion, and  sat  up  in  bed  leaning  on  my  elbows,  and  listening 
with  open  mouth  to  what  Hector  and  Norman  were  saying. 

The  former  was  in  what  Norman  called  "  a  way,"  "  a  state 
of  mind,"  which  may  be  translated  to  mean  a  state  of  temper. 

"  I  know  it's  no  use,"  he  was  saying ;  "  I  know  I'll  not  get 
it,  There's  that  confounded  fool — " 

Here  Norman  gave  a  low  whistle — he  didn't  quite  like  bad 
words. 

"  I  say  it  again,  that  confounded  fool,  Johnnie  Gordon, 
whom  I  thought  I  could  beat  by  just  lifting  my  little  finger, 
has  kept  my  place  as  often  as  I  have  kept  it  myself,  or 
oftener.  He  is  sure  to  get  the  prize.  And  if  he  does,  I'll 
thrash  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life." 

Norman  whistled  again.  I  began  to  think  that,  hero  as 
my  younger  cousin  was,  he  had  rather  queer  notions  of  might 
and  right.  Nevertheless,  I  earnestly  wished  he  might  get  the 
prize,  or  if  not,  that  Johnnie  Gordon  might  get  the  thrashing. 
I  felt  convinced  that  both  were  equally  deserved — as  indeed, 
I  still  think  they  were. 

"  Now,  Hector,"  Norman  answered,  "  if  you'd  only  listen  to 
reason,  and  take  things  coolly.  You  did  so  a  week  ago.  You 
said  you  did  not  care  a  straw  about  getting  any  prize  at  all." 

"  He  did  say  that,  for  I  heard  him,"  added  I,  at  rather  an 
unpropitious  moment.  Hector  made  an  angry  lunge  out  of 
bed.  (He  was  rather  fond  of  pommeling  even  me  sometimes, 
but  it  was  quite  in  a  friendly  way,  and  I  always  took  it 
quietly — I  was  so  fond  of  him).  The  lunge  missed  me,  so  all 
I  got  was  a  polite  "  Hold  your  tongue !  Bother !" 

"  Don't  practice  beforehand  on  poor  Phil,  in  mistake  for 
Johnnie  Gordon,"  said  Norrnan,  laughing — he  knew  good- 
humor  was  ten  times  better  than  scolding  ;  "  If  you  want  tc 
keep  your  hand  in,  I'm  bigger.  Hollo  ! — let's  have  a  round  !" 

He  leaped  up  in  bed,  tucked  up  his  white  shirt  sleivea,  ind 


78  A.  HERO. 

his  bare  arms — also  very  white;  for  I  remember  We  used  to 
tease  him  mercilessly  about  their  lady- like  color — shone  in  the 
moonlight.  Altogether  he  made  such  a  comical  show  of  war- 
fare— poor  Norman,  who  never  could  fight — that  Hector  forgot 
all  his  ill-humor,  and  burst  out  laughing,  until  Uncle  Macllroy 
coming  up  stairs,  rapped  warningly  at  the  door. 

So  we  all  slunk  into  bed  again,  and  were  doomed  to  whis- 
pers— under  cover  of  which,  I  managed  to  learn  the  real  facts 
about  the  prizes,  and  about  Hector's  wrath. 

In  the  High  School  of  Glasgow  at  that  time,  and  even  now 
for  all  I  know,  prizes  were  given  in  this  fashion  : — the  boys 
took  places  in  their  class  ;  each  day  it  was  set  down  in  writing 
where  they  stood,  first,  second,  third,  and  so  on.  At  the 
year's  end  these  numbers  were  counted,  and  the  lowest 
number,  which  consequently  ranked  highest  in  the  class,  re- 
ceived the  prize.  In  my  cousins'  class  there  were  three 
prizes,  the  first  of  which  would  doubtless  fall  to  Andrew  Caird 
or  Norman — the  second  was  pending  between  Hector  and 
Johnnie  Gordon.  All  the  winter  and  spring  these  two  had 
run  nearly  equal — in  their  Latin  at  least,  which  was  the 
thing  chief  thought  of — but  after  the  holidays,  Hector's  soul 
had  been  left  behind  with  the  boats  and  the  Clyde,  and  he 
lost  his  place  continually.  Doubtless  the  score  would  turn  out 
very  much  against  him,  poor  fellow ! 

"  It's  a  great  shame,"  cried  I  warmly,  after  which  loud 
exclamation  I  took  the  useless  precaution  of  smothering  my 
mouth  in  blankets  lest  they  should  hear  in  the  next  room 

"  It  is  a  shame,  when  he  could  beat  Gordon  and  me  too,  if 
he  tried.  If  Hector  were  not  such  a  lazy  fellow  I  should  be 
shaking  in  my  shoes,"  said  the  good-natured  elder  brother. 
:!  But  after  all  it  is  riot  sure  for  a  few  more  days.  Hold  up 
to  the  end,  lad  !  Never  say  die  !" 

And  he  began  counting  the  other  chances  Hector  had, 
supposing  the  Latin  prize  failed.  Alas  !  all  the  other  chanc* 


A  HEIIO.  74 

were  likely  enough  to  fail  too.  In  Greek,  figures,  mathemat- 
ics, drawing,  there  was  always  some  unlucky  impediment 
Perhaps  the  real  impediment  was  what  Uncle  Macllroy, 
teaching  his  boys  at  night,  often  said,  and  what  I  then  con- 
sidered an  atrocious  libel  and  a  cruel  instance  of  paternal  in- 
justice— that  Hector  was  one  of  the  laziest  fellows  the  sun 
ever  shone  upon ! 

"  What's  to  be  done  ?"  cried  the  poor  lad,  waking  up  to  his 
disastrous  situation.  "  Oh,  what  will  father  say  if  I  get  n<> 
prize  at  all !" 

Here  was  an  awful  prospect  ! — the  more  so  as  "  Father 
had  of  late  been  so  busy  teaching  me  in  the  evening,  that  h& 
had  not  looked  after  his  own  boys  quite  so  carefully  as  he 
ordinarily  did.  Nevertheless,  from  little  things  which  he  said 
sometimes,  we  knew  how  much  he  counted  on  the  success  of 
the  cleverest  of  his  sons,  in  whom,  though  he  tried  to  hide  it, 
he  evidently  took  great  pride. 

I  too,  began  to  speculate  on  what  Uncle  Macllroy  would 
say,  did  Hector  win  no  prize  this  year ;  and  as  the  brothers 
began  to  talk  in  a  lower  voice,  and  very  earnestly,  I  was  left 
to  my  own  meditations.  These  I  suppose,  gradually  melted 
into  drowsiness,  and  drowsiness  into  dreams ;  for  I  remember 
fancying  that  the  prizes  were  to  be  given  away  that  night,  in 
our  bedroom — that  the  Lord  Provost,  sitting  in  state  on  the 
chest  of  drawers,  was  delivering  numberless  rewards  to  every 
one  but  Hector,  whom  he  sentenced  to  be  beheaded.  That 
thereupon  my  uncle  came  in,  dressed  like  the  executioner  of 
Charles  I.,  carrying  instead  of  a  hatchet,  the  dogs-eared  Virgil, 
with  which  he  solemnly  cut  off  Hector's  head,  the  decapitated 
body  falling  across  the  bottom  of  my  bed. 

At  which  I  screamed  myself  awake,  and  found  it  was  only 
Gracie's  immense  black  cat,  who  had  leaped  on  my  feet,  and 
was  purring  himself  to  repose  as  contentedly  as  possible. 

Hector,  however,  was  still  alive,  if  I  might  judge  by  his 


80  A  HERO. 

vocifeious  snoring  ;  in  the  which  I  doubtless  very  soon  joined 
But  before  then,  I  recollect  seeing  Norman  lie,  his  wide  open 
eyes  and  anxious  face  distinctly  visible  in  the  moonlight.  He 
might  have  been  thinking  of  his  prize  ;  I  fancied  so  then,  but 
now  I  don't  believe  he  was.  Poor  Norman  !  I  did  not  always 
do  him  justic3.  in  those  days. 


CHAPTEll  IX, 

WEEKS  arid  days,  nephews,  seemed  a  great  deal  longer  to 
Philip  Carew  then,  than  to  Uncle  Philip  now.  The  time  at 
last  arrived  when  the  public  examination  was  only  a  fortnight 
distant,  and  the  boys  were  daily  expecting  to  be  informed  how 
the  prizes  stood.  The  examination,  I  should  say,  was  mere 
ly  complimentary,  to  show  off  the  boys'  acquirements,  and 
had  no  reference  to  reward  of  merit. 

Of  an  evening  we  were  always  a  very  studious  set,  but  during 
the  last  few  days  of  suspense  we  worked  like  Trojans !  I  could 
picture  us  now,  all  gathered  round  the  table  with  our  books 
and  exercises  before  us,  Hector  conning  his,  fast,  loudly,  im- 
patiently— his  cheeks  flushed  with  excitement ;  Norman  sit- 
ting very  quiet,  trying  to  knock  every  word  of  the  lesson  into 
his  honest  head,  poking  his  fingers  in  and  out  among  his  stiff 
hair — then  decidedly  and  obnoxiously  red,  but  which,  as  Gracie 
lovingly  foretold,  would  grow  into  the  prettiest  color  imagina- 
ble. And  Gracie  was  right. 

James  too,  the  busiest  little  laddie  of  ten  years  old,  what  an 
indefatigable  student  he  was  !  With  all  his  terror  of  four- 
footed  beasts,  how  bravely  he  could  decline  bos,  bovis !  and 
what  wonderful  long  sums  he  got  through,  perfect  mountains 
of  multiplication  !  Only,  he  never  could  learn  any  thing  with- 
out digging  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  squeezing  his  fists 
into  his  chin,  and  knitting  his  pretty  brows  like  an  old  philos- 
opher. Poor  little  Jamie !  I  wonder  if  he  does  the  same 
to  this  day  in  his  learred  college  at  Calcutta ! 

My  aunt  always  presided  at  the  lesson-learning,  the  head 


82  A  HERO, 

of  the  household  being  then  safely  deposited  in  his  study,  t? 
somebody's,  great  relief,  I  confess  '  Now  and  then,  however, 
we  knew  by  my  aunt's  looking  up  and  smiling,  that  he  had 
re-appeared  at  the  parlor  door,  to  carry  off  some  unfortunate 
*vight  for  a  lesson  ;  and  again  silence  fell  on  every  body,  except 
ior  the  click  of  Mrs.  Macllroy's  scissors  as  she  mended  thosr 
eternal  pairs  of  stockings,  little  and  big — grey  and  white — 
socks  and  long  hose.  Poor  woman  !  I  dare  say  she  almost 
wished,  after  the  formula  of  the  Emperor  Nero,  that  hei 
numerous  household  had  but  one  foot ;  the  only  hoj-e  for  a 
termination  of  her  labors. 

Nobody  was  allowed  to  talk  during  the  hour  of  lessons. 
This  was  a  positive  law,  which  like  many  another,  was  by 
some  loophole  or  other  slipped  through.  Gracie  did  it  chiefly 
Nobody  could  see  her  lying  on  her  little  sofa  in  the  corner, 
telling  fairy-tales  to  Willie  and  Wattie,  without  listening  with 
one  ear  at  least.  Most  interesting  tales  these  were,  always 
beginning  "  once  upon  a  time,"  and  ending  with  "  they  lived 
very  happy  all  their  lives."  What  wonderful  people  "  they" 
must  have  been  ! 

But  Willie  and  Wattie  was  not  always  satisfied  even  with 
them.  Continually  the  wee  fellows,  Willie  especially,  would 
come  creeping  to  the  table,  pulling  Norman's  sleeve  with  the 
interminable  "  Please,  tell  me  a  'tory  !" 

And  continually  Norman  would  lay  his  book  down,  rub  his 
fingers  over  his  forehead,  to  send  the  cobwebs  away,  and 
patiently  launch  into  some  astonishing  adventure,  told  in  an 
under-tone,  with  the  gravest  face  imaginable.  He  certainly 
was  the  very  perfection  of  an  elder  brother,  as  regarded  the 
babies  of  the  family. 

In  fact,  whether  a  Hero  or  not,  in  all  cases  of  difficulty  he 
invariably  turned  out  the  best  elder  brother  in  the  world. 

I  remember  one  Saturday  night — it  must  have  been  Sat- 
urday, oar  weekly  holiday — his  taking  me  aside  and  warning 


A  HERO.  83 

me  to  be  especially  "plly,"  and  say  no  word  about  the  all 
engrossing  subject — the  prizes — if  I  could  help  it.  From  this 
I  guessed  that  Norman  had  good  reason  for  thinking  that  to 
day  was  the  critical  day  with  the  masters,  and  that  Monday 
would  decide  every  thing 

I  felt  very  uncomfortable ;  for  little  as  I  went  among  the 
High  School  lads,  I  had  heard  enough  to  know  what  the 
Fourth  Year  generally  thought  of  Hector's  chance  ;  and  that 
it  was  but  the  turning  of  a  feather  between  my  elder  cousin 
and  the  steady-going  patient,  wooden-headed  dolt,  Johnnie 
Gordon.  Very  hard,  that ! 

However,  I  made  myself  "jolly,"  as  Norman  desired,  and 
helped  him  to  make  the  rest  so.  Hector  did  not  heed  us  ;  he 
was,  or  seemed  to  be,  in  very  high  spirits ;  he  had  been  third 
in  the  class  for  five  days  now,  and  thought  that  Johnnie  Gor- 
don's star  was  paling.  He  was  so  easily  swayed  either  to 
hope  or  fear,  poor  fellow  ! 

After  tea,  Norman  put  on  his  comical  mood — which,  when 
he  chose,  was  very  comical  indeed.  He  took  little  Willie  on 
his  knee,  and  told  him  the  queerest  'torivs,  until  we  all  gath- 
ered round  in  curiosity.  As  for  the  child,  his  pretty  face 
lengthened  with  amazement,  and  his  eyes  were  almost  start- 
ing out  of  his  head. 

"  Not  quite  so  wild  as  that,  my  boy,  you'll  frighten  the 
little  ones,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  getule — a  very  gentle 
reproach,  for  she  had  been  watching  Norman  all  night,  and 
doubtless  guessed  his  motive,  though  she  said  nothing.  "  Come, 
Willie  and  Wattie,  before  you  go  to  bed,  shall  mamma  tell  you 
a'tory?" 

Mamma's  'tories  were  so  rare,  that  at  once  there  was  a 
delighted  assent,  and  all  crowded  round.  I  could  see  that  little 
fireside  group  now  ;  my  aunt  in  her  arm-chair,  with  Wattie 
on  her  knee,  Gracie  lying  on  the  sofa  opposite,  so  smiling  and 
vmtent,  with  Norman  sitting  at  her  feet,  and  Willie  too,  \vhc 


81  A  HERO. 

lever  would  leave  his  elder  brother  on  any  account,  lu  the 
intermediate  space  sprawled  Hector,  James,  and  I,  dividing 
the  hearth-rug  with  the  big  black  cat,  which  Norman's  wag- 
gery had  christened  Tea-kettle,  on  account  of  his  color,  his 
fondness  for  sitting  close  by — nay  all  but  on  the  fire,  and  his 
habit  of  hissing  indignantly  at  every  opportunity. 

"  Now,"  began  my  aunt,  "  If  any  body  knows  what  I  am 
going  to  tell,  they  are  not  to  say  any  thing  until  it  is  over." 

It  was  a  mysterious  commencement,  and  I  paid  attention. 
Every  word  almost  of  the  story  I  remember  to  this  day. 

"  Once  upon  a  time — now,  listen,  Willie  and  Wattie,  and, 
Jamie,  do  not  be  pulling  poor  Tea-kettle's  tail — Once  upon  a 
time,  there  were  a  papa  and  mamma  living  together  at  a  manse 
far  up  in  the  Highlands.  Perhaps  Philip  does  not  know  what 


a  manse  is 


9" 


Ay,  but  I  did  ;  having  grown  familiar  with  Scottish  words 
I  at  once  stated  that  it  was  the  clergyman's  house. 

"  The  minister's,"  said  Aunt  Macllroy,  correcting  me , 
"  and  this  papa  was  a  minister.  He  had  an  immense  parish, 
«11  among  the  mountains ;  indeed,  he  had  to  ride  sixty  mile* 
to  get  from  one  end  to  the  other.  In  the  summer  time  he  was 
often  absent  for  whole  days  together,  preaching  among  the  hills, 
and  leaving  his  wife  at  the  little  manse.  It  was  a  very  small 
place.  They  lived  there  with  only  one  servant  to  help  the 
mistress  in  the  house,  and  look  after  the  two  little  boys." 

"  Two  'ittle  boys,"  repeated  Willie  with  grave  interest. 
"  Mamma,  were  dey  as  big  as  Wattie  and  me  ?" 

"  I  think  so." 

Den,  dey  were  not  'ittle  boys,"  sturdily  pers^ted  Willie, 
whose  reasoning  and  intellectual  powers  far  surpassed  hia 
powers  of  language. 

"  Very  well,  they  were  big  boys,  then,"  said  Norman, 
laughing  ;  "  only  do  not  interrupt  mamma." 

Aunt  Masllroy  tried  to  go  on,  but  very  soon  Willie,  after  a 


A.  HERO  86 

meditative  silence,  broke  in  again.     "  Please,  tell  me  one  ting 
just  one  ting." 

"  Welf,  out  with  it !" 

"  Did  de  two  'ittle  boys  wear  pinafores  ?" 

Every  body  laughed,  as  indeed  we  often  did  at  Willie  ;  he 
required  such  very  circumstantial  descriptions  of  every  thing. 

"  Yes,  I  can  answer  for  it ;  they  did  wear  pinafores,  which 
they  tore  just  as  often  as  Willie  and  Wattie  do  theirs,  and . 
often  made  mamma  very  sorry."     Here  Willie,  quenched  and 
humiliated,  poked  his  fingers  thoughtfully  in  his  rosy  mouth, 
and  let  the  tale  go  on. 

"These  two  brothers  were  near  of  an  age,  and  as  there 
were  no  more,  except  a  tiny  baby,  they  were  left  to  play  to 
gether  a  good  deal,  with  no  one  looking  after  them  except  the 
servant-lassie  who  was  their  nurse. 

"  Dat  was  Issy,  their  Issy,"  observed  Willie,  with  the  an 
of  a  person  asserting  a  great  fact ;  arguing,  I  suppose,  that  all 
nurses  must  bear  the  same  name  as  his  own. 

"  We'll  call  her  Issy,"  answered  the  mamma,  smiling. 
"  They  were  very  good  little  boys,  especially  the  elder,  and 
did  not  give  Issy  or  mamma  any  thing  like  such  trouble  as 
some  other  little  boys  I  knew.  So  they  were  allowed  to  run 
about  the  manse-garden  and  farm-yard  ;  for  the  minister  had 
a  sort  of  farm,  that  is,  he  kept  a  horse  and  two  cows,  and  had 
a  few  sheep  feeding  on  the  hill-side. 

"  There  were  two  places  about  the  yard  where  the  children 
were  forbidden  to  go  ;  one  was  to  the  byre  while  the  cowc 
were  in  it,  and  the  other  was  to  a  stone  trough  that  lay  just 
outside  the  gate  in  the  manse ;  the  minister  had  placed  it 
there  for  the  cattle  to  drink  out  of.  It  was  a  long  and  deep 
trough." 

"  How  long,  and  how  deep  ?"  inquired  the  pertinacious 
Willie,  whose  great  blue  eyes  were  dilating  wider  and  wider. 

"  About  the  length  of  the  hearth-rug,  and  as  high  as  that," 


86  4   HEftO. 

Baid  my  aunt,  measuring  with  her  hand  aboui  two  loci  iroir 
the  ground.  "  In  summer  time,  when  the  little  mountain 
streams  were  dried  up,  it  was  always  carefully  kept  full,  by 
the  minister's  desire,  that  the  poor  thirsty  cattle  and  sheep 
which  happened  to  pass  by  might  always  find  something  to 
drink  at  his  door." 

"  How  kind  !  Was  he  not  a  very  good  man,  these  boys' 
father  ]"  asked  James. 

I  could  see  my  aunt's  eyes  silently  shining ;  but  she  only 
nodded  her  head  in  reply. 

"  One  summer-day  the  little  boys  were  sent  out  into  the  gar- 
den, to  play  about  there,  while  Issy  was  busy  washing  and 
drying  the  clothes,  going  to  look  at  the  children  from  time  1o 
time  to  see  that  they  got  into  no  mischief.  For  though,  as  I 
said  before,  they  were  good  boys,  still  they  were  very  young. 
Country  children  brought  up  as  they  were  have  on  the  whole 
more  sense  than  town  children,  otherwise  these  would  riot 
have  been  trusted  alone  at  all.  But  though  the  younger  was 
daring  and  heedless,  the  elder  was  a  very  wise  little  fellow  for 
h'S  age. 

"  On  this  especial  day  they  were  more  left  to  themselves 
than  they  had  ever  been  before,  for  the  minister  was  out  on  the 
hills,  and  the  mother  was  kept  indoors,  looking  after  her  poor 
little  baby  that  was  ill. 

"  She  sat  nursing  it  for  a  long  time,  an  hour  or  two  after 
she  had  sent  away  the  boys.  It  kept  crying  incessantly,  sc 
that  she  could  hear  nothing,  think  of  nothing  but  that.  At 
iast  it  grew  quieter,  and  she  walked  about  the  room  singing  it 
to  sleep.  The  window  was  open,  for  the  day  was  very  warm  ; 
every  thing  around  was  quite  still,  as  the  Highland  mount- 
ains always  are  in  summer.  But  as  she  stood  laying  her 
baby  in  bed,  she  heard  a  faint  sound  somewhere  outside  the 
house. 

At  first  she  thought  it  was    only  the  hens   calling  their 


A  HEUO.  «' 

chickens  far  down  the  road  ;  it  was  very  unlikely  to  be  the 
voices  of  people  talking,  for  the  manse  was  in  such  a  sol- 
itary place  that  sometimes  not  more  than  one  person  passed 
in  a  day.  And  just  then  the  poor  baby  waking,  the  mother 
turned  and  sang  it  to  sleep  again.  When  she  ceased  she 
jtiil  heard  the  same  faint  noise. 

What  sort  of  a  noise  T'  James  wished  to  know. 

"  Like  somebody  who  was  trying  to  call  out  and  could 
not,  being  half  smothered,  and  the  cry  sounded  liko  a  little 
child's." 

Here  Aunt  Macllroy  stopped,  looked  pale,  as  if  f.he  bare 
idea  of  this  critical  moment  were  too  much  for  her  motherly 
heart. 

"  The — the  minister's  wife  ran  to  the  window.  It  looked 
on  the  long  garden,  at  the  bottom  of  which  ran  the  road. 

"  There  she  saw  the  great  deep  trough,  which  had  been  that 
morning  filled,  and  above  it  something  which  looked  like  a 
little  curly  heaj 

"  Nobody  can  teil  how  the  terrified  mother  managed  to  get 
down  stairs.  When  she  came  to  the  trough-side,  there  were 
her  own  poor  boys — not  one,  but  both !  The  younger  had 
fallen  in  with  his  face  foremost,  nearly  touching  the  water  ;  the 
elder,  not  strong  enough  to  pull  his  brother  out,  had  climbed 
up  and  stretched  over  the  side.  Baby  as  he  was,  he  had  the 
sense  to  keep  his  little  brother's  head  above  water,  holding  it 
by  its  curls,  while  he  cried  out  for  "  mamma"  and  "  Issy." 
He  must  have  remained  thus  for  more  than  half-an-hour. 
Both  were  nearly  exhausted  ;  another  minute — and  the  little 
hands  would  have  given  way  and  the  little  head  have  sunk 
down,  and — O  my  dear  children  !" 

We  all  looked  in  amazement  at  my  aunt,  who  had  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  much  agitated.  The  children  clustered 
round  her  anxiously,  but  she  soon  put  them  aside  with  hei 
quiet  smile,  and  was  herself  again. 


88  A  HERO. 

"  But  the  little  boys,"  said  Hector,  deeply  interested,  "Tncj 
were  saved  ?  They  grew  up  to  be  men  ?  What  a  wonder- 
fully  brave  fellow  the  elder  must  have  been  !" 

"  And  so  sensible  too,"  added  James. 

"  Surely,"  Hector  continued  energetically,  "  the  yourigei 
would  never  forget  what  he  owed  to  his  brother,  even  when 
they  were  quite  babies." 

"  I  hope,"  the  mother  answered,  "  I  earnestly  hope  he  never 
may."  And  smiling,  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  her 
two  elder  boys. 

Norman  sat  uneasily  twisting  Willie's  pinafore.  All  the 
while  he  had  not  spoken  a  word  ;  but  when  he  met  lib 
mother's  eye  he  blushed  crimson. 

Gracie  half  rose ;  she  was  the  quickest  of  us  all  to  divine 
the  mystery.  "  Mamma,  it's  a  true  story  you  have  been  telling 
us !  And  I  guess  who  were  the  two  little  boys." 

Sobbing,  she  flung  her  arms  round  Norman's  neck  and 
kissed  him. 

Then  a  light  broke  upon  us  all,  but  Hector  was  the  most 
confounded.  He  turned  red  and  pale,  and  looked  more  near 
crying  than  I  had  ever  seen  him. 

"  Mamma — and  I  never  knew  this  !" 

"  Your  father  desired  it  should  not  be  told.  But  it  is  indeed 
true.  Your  brother  Norman  saved  your  life." 

"  Norman  saved  my  life,"  repeated  Hector,  still  bewildered. 
But  Norman  came  up  and  put  his  hands  on  his  brother's 
shoulders  with  a  cheerful  laugh,  "  Wake  up,  old  fellow,  you 
see  we're  both  alive  now." 

Then  Hector,  quite  overcome,  did  a  little  bit  of  sentiment, 
and  the  two  big  brothers  kissed  one  another  as  if  they  had 
been  baby  playfellows. 

My  aunt  was  a  wise  woman.  After  her  story  nobody  even 
so  much  as  thought  of  prizes. 

I  went  to  bed  that  night  looking  with  rather  diffeiwit  eyei 


.A   HERO.  fe« 

at  my  cousin  Norman  Though  I  still  believed  it  quite  im- 
possible that  such  a  ir.ild  easy-going  fellow  could  be  in  any 
way  the  hero  I  sought,  yet  I  began  to  think  that  during  his 
boyish  life-time  Norman  Macllroy  had  done  one  or  two  things 
that  even  a  hero  need  not  be  ashamed  of. 
What  say  you,  n 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  that  Monday — the  very  day  of  all  others  that  I  intend- 
ed to  stay  about  the  school  after  my  uncle's  class  was  over — 
which  I  did  not  usually  do,  the  High  School  lads  teased  me 
so — on  that  Monday  I  had  to  come  home  at  once,  for  poor 
little  Gracie  was  ill,  and  my  aunt  wanted  me  to  deliver  some 
messages.  Of  course,  1  was  always  glad  to  do  any  thing  for 
my  kind,  good  aunt,  and  little  Gracie. 

1  came  direct  from  school,  hearing  no  word  of  the  prizes. 
Indeed,  I  forgot  all  about  them  till  dinner  time. 

Then,  as  I  sat  at  the  window,  trying  to  keep  the  little  ones 
quiet,  I  saw  my  two  elder  cousins  coming  down  the  street 
One  look  at  Hector  was  enough  to  explain  the  truth — that 
he  had  failed,  and  Johnnie  Gordon  had  won. 

Poor  Hector  ;  the  proud,  handsome,  merry  lad  !  How  1 
haled  that  Johnnie  Gordon  ! 

I  did  not  like  to  run  and  meet  the  boys,  lest  it  might  wound 
Hector's  feelings  ;  so  I  listened  till  the  hall  door  opened,  and 
very  soon  Norman  came  in  alone.  His  brother  had  gone 
away  up-stairs. 

''  WelH"  said  I  in  a  whisper,  for  Gracie  lay  on  the  sofa 
asleep. 

"Well!"  said  he;  and  nothing  more.  He  looked  almost 
as  unhappy  as  Hector  himself. 

"  How  many  has  he  got  ?     Any  or  none  ?" 

"  One — second  for  writing.      But  that's  nothing  !'' 

"  And  you  ?" 

"Oh,   PhiJ,   be   quiet!      Just   three!'      His  vexed   voice 


A  HERO.  91 

though  he  spoke  of  three  prizes,  might  have  seemed  like 
affectation  or  hypocrisy  ;  but  even  in  my  most  unjust  moods 
I  never  could  find  the  like  of  either  in  Norman  Macllroy. 

We  said  no  more,  for  Gracie  \vas  just  waking,  and  ill  as 
she  was,  we  knew  it  would  grieve  her  to  know  how  unhappy 
her  brothers  were.  Very  soon  I  went  up-stairs  to  poor 
Hector. 

Nephews,  I  have  long  been  a  grown  man,  and  seen  much 
of  vexation  and  disappointment  in  the  world,  but  I  own  that 
the  recollection  of  Hector's  misery  rests  upon  me  still.  It 
was  perfect  despair. 

"  Hollo  !"  shouted  he,  when  I  opened  the  door.  "  Keep  off, 
will  you?  Who  wants  you?  If  you  come  in  I'll  send  this 
book  at  your  head." 

I  did  come  in,  for  I  was  so  sorry  for  him  ;  and  he  did  send 
the  book  at  my  head,  only  luckily  I  ducked  down  and  it 
missed  me.  By  that  time  Hector's  passion  was  cooled ;  he 
lay  sullenly  on  one  bed.  while  I  sat  on  the  other,  looking  at 
him. 

"Hector,"  said  I,  "if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  care." 

"I  do  not  care  ! — who  says  I  do? — I've  thrashed  four  of 
the  class,  and  kicked  Johnnie  Gordon  half  way  down  stairs, 
and  now  1  m  satisfied.  Doctor  Cowe  and  his  prize  may  go 
to  the  devil  if  he  likes." 

1  hia.  certainly  was  language  not  quite  becoming  a  minister's 
son,  or  indeed  any  body's  son.  I  was  quite  astounded.  For, 
though  I  know  the  boys  in  public  schools  generally  get  a 
habit  of  using  ill  language,  and  are  even  so  deluded  as  think 
it  fine  and  manly,  it  was  not  so  with  my  cousins.  Uncle 
Macllroy  had  brought  up  each  of  his  sons  to  be,  like  himself, 
a  Christian  and  a  gentleman. 

"  Dear  Hector,"  said  I  meekly,  for  all  the  girlishne&s  I  had 
about  me  from  being  taught  by  women,  came  back  when  I 
saw  him  in  such  trouble.  <:  Please,  don't  talk  abou'  the 


92  A  HERO. 

devil.  It  isn't  right,  and  it  won't  get  you  back  your  prizes 
Never  mind,  try  again  !" 

"  I'll  not  try  again.  I'll  never  try  any  more.  I'll  drown 
myself — or  go  to  sea — or —  ' 

"  Come  and  have  dinner,"  said  little  Willie  at  the  door. 

This  apropos  conclusion  of  his  sentence  would  at  any  othei 
time  have  made  Hector  laugh  his  ill-humor  away,  but  it  was 
too  deeply  seated  now. 

"I'll  have  no  dinner.  Yes," — he  added  with  a  sudden 
thought — "I'll  go  down,  just  to  show  them  how  little  I  care." 

It  happened  fortunately  for  Hector  that  his  father  being 
out,  and  his  mother  busy  over  Gracie,  the  dinner  that  day 
was  a  very  desultory  affair.  Nobody  took  much  notice  of 
him. 

He  made  a  great  show  of  eating  heartily — being  always  a 
big,  stout,  hungry  boy  ;  but,  looking  at  him,  I  could  fancy  he 
swallowed  down  more  tears  than  mouthfuls.  He  seemed  in 
a  state  of  perpetual  choke,  poor  lad  !  All  the  rest  were  very 
kind  to  him,  and  bore  his  sharp  speeches  without  a  reply  ; 
for,  though  the  young  Macllroys  often  squabbled  a  little,  as 
all  families  of  boys  must,  there  was  always  a  tender  combina- 
tion over  any  one  of  the  number  that  was  either  sick  or  in 
trouble.  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Hector  that  day  had  abused 
us  all  round  we  should  have  taken  it  quite  patiently — so  sorry 
were  we  for  him. 

But  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  ate  his  dinner,  or  pre- 
tended to  do  so,  and  went  up  again  to  his  own  room  as  before, 
save  that  this  time  he  locked  the  door.  Which  proceeding 
made  me  very  unhappy,  for  I  thought  him  such  a  desperate, 
daring  boy,  capable  of  any  thing.  All  the  romantic  stories 
I  had  ever  read,  of  incarcerated  or  wronged  heroes  secretly 
putting  an  end  to  themselves,  came  horribly  into  my  mind  as 
I  sat  by  that  bolted  door.  Every  now  and  then  1  called  to 
Hector;  he  maie  m  answer,  though  I  heard  him  moving 


A  HERO.  93 

about.  At  last,  as  the  afternoon  darkened  he  seemed  tu  grow 
quieter.  My  terror  only  increased  the  more.  Every  minute 
I  expected  to  hear  the  click  of  a  pistol,  or  the  fall  of  a  heavy 
hanged  body  ! — A  very  brilliant  imagination  of  mine,  consid- 
ering there  were  no  sort  of  fire-arms  in  the  house ;  and  cer- 
tainly Hector,  whose  hands  were  not  adroit  at  any  thing  but 
fighting,  would  never  find  out  the  correct  way  to  hang  him- 
self. My  knowledge  of  his  want  of  manual  dexterity  also 
put  to  flight  another  fear — that  he  had  torn  the  sheets  into 
strips,  made  a  rope-ladder,  after  the  fashion  of  De  Latude  and 
•/ther  prisoners,  escaped  out  of  the  window — a  very  useless 
trouble,  when  he  could  so  easily  have  gone  out  by  the  front 
door — and  so  ran  off  to  sea,  never  to  be  heard  of  more  ! 

But  it  would  be  idle  to  count  up  my  fantastic  and  roman- 
tic speculations  during  the  two  hours  that  I  kept  guard  at 
intervals  over  Hector's  bedroom.  I  had  nobody  to  speak  to, 
Norman  having  disappeared  mysteriously  after  dinner.  I 
thought  it  very  unkind  of  him  so  to  go  and  leave  his  brother 
m  such  a  state,  and  my  love  and  pity  for  Hector  rose  tenfold. 

After  a  while  the  poor  lad  seemed  comforted,  for  I  did  not 
hear  him  dashing  things  about,  but  still  I  could  get  no  an- 
swer, not  even  when  it  grew  dark  and  I  begged  him  to  come 
to  the  parlor  fire.  At  last,  when  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  silence 
had  rather  frightened  me,  I  bethought  me  of  sending  in  a 
potent  consoler. 

I  waylaid  Tea-kettle  on  the  stairs  and  made  him  scratch 
with  his  fore  paws  at  the  door,  his  accustomed  token  that  he 
wished  to  be  let  into  the  boys'  room. 

The  door  was  half  opened.  Hector  was  certainly  growing 
mollified — toward  Tea-kettle  at  least.  But  little  hope  there 
was  for  me,  Avho  only  had  the  door  shut  in  my  face  with  a 
cross  "  Get  along  !" 

I  certainly  won  "  more  kicks  than  halfpence"  from  my 
Hero  ;  but  then  I  was  rather  a  devoted  little  fellow,  and 


94  A  HERO. 

had  always  that  peculiarity,  more  suited  to  a  woman  than  a 
man,  of  loving  those  I  did  love  entirely  for  themselves,  withou' 
reference  to  the  way  they  treated  rne.  Likewise  it  shows 
what  a  generous,  frank-hearted  lad  Hector  must  have  been, 
and  how  many  good  qualities  he  must  have  had,  since  h<j 
made  me  love  him  so  well,  though  he  was  such  a  tyrant. 

It  was  useless  meddling  with  him  any  more  till  Norman 
came  in — Norman  who  could  coax  any  body  to  anything.  I 
bethought  myself  of  the  rhyme  my  mother  used  to  say  to  me 
in  rny  sulky  moods,  a  rhyme  into  which  she  put  a  mighty 
deal  of  moral  meaning. 

"  Little  Philippe 

Has  lost  his  sheep  (viz.  his  temper) 
And  doesn't  know  where  to  find  him ; 

Leave  him  alone 

And  he'll  come  home, 
Dragging  his  tail  behind  him." 

I  never  exactly  comprehended  the  force  of  the  last  line,  nor 
do  I  now,  but  doubtless  it  had  a  significance,  so  I  determined 
to  follow  out  the  axiom  and  leave  Hector  alone. 

Only  once,  unable  to  keep  away,  I  crept  up  the  dark  stair- 
case and  listened  at  the  door.  There  was  a  hollow,  smothered 
sound  inside — regular — coming  at  intervals  like  groaning. 
Had  he  really  killed  himself?  I  was  on  the  point  of  run- 
ning to  alarm  the  household,  when  I  remembered  Tea-kettle 
— the  wise  sensible  cat,  that  was  so  fond  of  Hector.  Arid  1 
fancied  that  in  the  midst  of  the  groaning  I  heard  loud  purrs. 
O  lucky  Tea-kettle !  There  could  not  be  any  thing  very 
wrong. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  an  infinite  relief  when,  tumbling 
down  stairs,  I  felt  somebody  else  tumble  up  against  me,  and 
found  it  was  Norman. 

"  Hollo — who's  that  ]" 

"  Only  me. — Oh  Norman,  come  up  here  and  listen ! — 
What's  wrong  with  Hector  ?" 


A.  HERO.  9b 

Norman  leaped  up  three  stairs  at  a  time,  tried  the  handle, 
and  then  put  his  ear  to  the  door. 

What  a  relief  it  was  to  hear  him  burst  out  in  one  of  his 
merry  laughs  !  "  Bravo  !  you're  a  pretty  goose,  Phil.  He's 
only  snoring.  Here — Hector  lad  !  wake  up.  Open  the  door. 
I've  got  some  news  for  you." 

That  loud  cheery  voice  would  have  wakened  the  sulkiest 
sleeper.  We  heard  Hector  roll  out  of  bed  and  unlock  the  door. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  have  had  sleep  enough  ;  here  have  I 
been  all  the  way  to  Doctor  Cowe's  and  back." 

Hector  threw  himself  down  again,  and  told  Norman  to  hold 
his  tongde. 

"  I  will  not,  for  I  have  a  notion  in  mv  head.  I've  been  to 
the  old  Doctor  about  the  Greek  verb." 

This  was  decided  Greek  to  me,  and  I  durst  not  give  any 
sign  of  my  presence  by  inquiry ;  but  I  afterward  found  out 
what  Norman  meant.  There  were,  beside  the  prizes,  a  few 
medals  given  at  the  High  School,  and  one  of  these  was  for 
the  best  writing  out  of  a  Greek  verb.  This  was  considered 
one  of  the  chief  competitions  in  the  class,  and  Norman,  who 
was  pretty  well  on  in  Greek,  had  done  his,  but  Hector  had 
been  too  lazy  to  try. 

"Let  me  alone,"  muttered  he,  "what  do  Greek  verbs 
matter  to  rne  ?" 

"  A  little,  for  I've  a  plan,  as  I  said.  Hold  up,  lad,  and 
listen.  Do  you  think  I'd  have  walked  all  the  way  to  Patrick 
and  back  for  nothing  1  No,  though  the  old  Co  we  did  give 
me  a  drink  of  milk  and  a  big  apple.  Here  it  is  !" 

But  Hector,  with  a  return  of  his  old  ill-humor,  sent  the 
offered  apple  spinning  across  the  room. 

"Well — if  you  will  not  listen,"  said  his  brother,  somewhat 
hurt. 

"  I  will  listen  to  you,  only  do  not  teaze  me  about  old  Cows 
and  the  'prizes.'  I  hate  and  despise  them  all." 


»6  A  HERO. 

"  Would  you  despise  a  medal  if  you  got  it  ]"  said  Norman 
smiling.  You  might ;  there's  plenty  of  time.  The  Greek 
verb  can  not  be  decided  till  just  before  the  prize-giving,  as  the 
Principal  wishes  to  judge  it  himself,  arid  he  is  away  from 
home.  Though  my  verb  is  done,  Charles  Henderson's  is  not, 
nor  John  Menteith's.  The  old  Cowe  himself  says  that  if  you 
were  to  try  hard  and  work  steadily,  you  might  get  the 
medal." 

"  Does  he  ?"  cried  Hector,  leaping  up  in  bed,  and  nearly 
extinguishing  poor  Tea-kettle,  who  began  hissing  at  a  great 
rate. 

"  Ay,  and  I  think  he  would  be  glad  too.  He  knows  what 
you  can  do ; — and  he  would  be  greatly  hurt  that  father's 
cleverest  boy  should  gain  nothing." 

"  But  I  will — I'll  get  that  medal  or  I'll  die  for  it,"  shouted 
the  impressible  Hector.  "  I'll  brush  up  all  my  Greek,  I'll 
work  early  and  late." 

"And  I'll  help  you — that  is  in  the  writing,  because  perhaps 
you  do  not  write  Greek  quite  as  well  as  I  do,  and  the  verb 
must  look  very  neat,  mind.  But  you'll  soon  manage  it. 
We'll  get  up  at  six  instead  of  seven,  and  practice  that  abom- 
inableaZ  pha,  beta,  till  you'll  write  Greek  as  well  as  you, 
write  your  copy  books.  I  think  you  have  a  very  good  chance 
of  the  medal.  What  says  Philip  ]" 

I  could  hardly  speak,  I  was  so  glad ! 

"  Hey,  little  7?hil,  are  you  there  ?"  said  Hector,  patting  me 
on  the  back.  "Come,  hunt  for  my  other  shoe,  will  you 
there's  a  good  lad  ;  I'm  going  to  get  up  to  tea." 

He  did  get  up,  and  was  soon  his  old  merry  self— kinder 
than  usual  to  us  all,  especially  to  Norman.  Gracie  grew 
better  toward  night,  which  added  to  the  cheerfulness,  so  that 
after  all  our  woes  we  had  quite  a  merry  evening,  and  Nor 
man  told  such  lots  of  quaint  fairy  tales  and  hobgoblin  stories, 
that  little  Willie's  curls  almost  stood  on  end.  But  when  thi 


A  HERO.  97 

iittle  ones  were  fairly  gone  to  bed,  out  came  pen  and  ink,  and 
the  two  lads  were  writing  Greek  verbs  until  the  very  last 
minute  before  their  father  came  home. 

All  that  week  and  part  of  the  next  we  had  nothing  but 
Greek  verbs.  Of  course  all  they  did  was  mere  practicing  ; 
for  the  verb  itself  had  to  be  written  at  school,  on  magnificent 
white  parchment.  But  every  bit  of  it  was  copied  out  a  dozen 
times  beforehand,  by  the  indefatigable  Hector,  under  his 
brother's  instruction.  Our  bedroom  resembled  the  cave  of 
Virgil's  Sibyl,  being  strewed  with  innumerable  leaves  of 
waste  paper,  scraps  of  tenses  and  moods  ;  and  I'm  sure  I 
went  to  sleep  every  night  to  the  sound  of 

TVTTTG)  rvnreig  rvnrei 


("  Lack-a-day  !"  cried  Uncle  Philip,  laughing—  "if  I  haven't 
quite  forgot  my  dual  number.") 

£ 


CHAPTER  XI. 

HECTOR'S  verb  was  done  in  sufficient  time ;  and,  as  hia 
brother  positively  informed  me — and  Norman  never  exagger- 
ated any  thing — "  it  looked  stunning." 

We  were  all  very  glad,  for  the  poor  lad  had  worked  harder 
and  more  steadily  than  Hector  had  ever  been  known  to  work 
before ;  and  counting  on  his  deservings,  we  began  hopefully 
to  anticipate  the  medal.  As  for  the  other  competitors,  Charles 
Henderson,  and  John  Menteith,  Norman  declared  there  was 
nothing  to  be  feared  from  them,  their  verbs  were  so  much  in- 
ferior to  Hector's. 

It  was  very  odd,  but — probably  from  his  saying  so  little 
about  it — we  had  all  of  us  quite  forgotten  Norman's  own  verb 
— completed  some  time  since,  and  put  away. 

The  examination  day  arrived.  Though  nothing  of  im- 
portance depended  on  it,  still  it  was  a  day  of  great  expectation 
and  delight  to  the  High  School  boys. 

"  You  are  allowed  to  come  to  our  Year,  and  mamma,  and 
Gracie  too,"  said  Hector  to  me.  "  Doctor  Cowe  is  glad  to 
see  every  body.  He  hopes  they  will  come  early,  because  the 
Ovid  begins  at  ten,  and  he  wishes  father  to  question  us.  Any 
body  may  put  to  us  any  questions  they  like." 

"  Even  I,  Hector,"  cried  Gracie,  mischievously,  holding  up 
her  merry  face  ;  she  was  quite  well  again  now — at  least,  well 
for  her. 

"  Even  you,  little  goosie  !  Supposing  you  choose  to  do  such 
a  very  foolish  thing,  and  exhibit  your  ignorance." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  /aughed,  putting  her  arms  round  hia 


A  HERO.  I  99 

neck  as  he  carried  her  down  stairs  to  her  little  chaise  ; — rough 
boy  as  he  was,  Hector  never  had  a  hard  word  for  Gracie. 
Indeed  none  of  us  had,  she  was  such  a  gentle  little  darling. 

Hector  and  Norman  started  first,  but  the  rest  soon  followed 
in  a  body;  my  uncle  and  aunt,  James,  little  Willie,  Gracie 
and  I. 

It  was  a  very  formidable  thing,  opening  that  door  of  the 
Fourth  Year ;  almost  as  formidable  as  the  entrance  into 
Uncle  Macllroy's  class-roorn.  For  little  boys,  and  girls  too, 
persist  in  the  notion  that  every  body  is  looking  at  them,  when 
in  fact  every  body  usually  happens  to  have  something  very 
much  better  to  do.  If  each  shy  person,  boy  or  young  man, 
could  once  believe  of  how  very  small  importance  he  is  to  so- 
ciety in  general,  and  how  rarely  any  body  sees  whether  he  is 
in  the  room  or  out  of  it — what  he  wears,  or  does  not  wear-- 
what  he  does,  or  does  not  do — and  that,  provided  he  does  not 
do  any  thing  very  extraordinary — such  as  standing  on  his 
head,  for  instance,  the  chances  are  that  nobody  is  taking  the 
least  notice  of  him  ; — if  only  he  could  be  made  to  understand 
this,  we  should  have  much  less  foolish  bashfulness  in  the  world. 

("There's  a  lecture  for  you,  boys,"  observed  Uncle  Philip. 
His  nephews  gave  him  such  a  hearty  round  of  laughter  and 
applause,  that  nobody  could  for  a  moment  accuse  them  of 
bashfulness.) 

I  have  no  doubt  I  blushed  as  deeply  as  if  the  whole  three- 
score pair  of  boys'  eyes  were  concentrated  on  me  alone,  when 
probably  every  body  looked  at  my  aunt  and  Gracie,  and  no- 
body at  me.  And  I  remember  feeling  quite  nervous  as  to 
whether  I  ought  or  ought  not  to  smile  in  answer  to  the  ap- 
plause, or  "roughing,"  as  my  cousins  called  it,  which  greeted 
our  entrance,  quite  forgetting  that  this  tremendous  racket  of 
boys'  feet  on  the  boards  was  meant  in  compliment  to  the 
favorite  among  all  the  High  School  masters,  my  uncle  Mac- 
[Iroy. 


iOO  A  HERO. 

"They  always  'rough'  father  very  much/'  whispered 
Gracie  to  me.  "  And  he  looks  so  pleased ! — Ah,  mamma 
sees  our  boys.  Look,  Philip,  there  they  are." 

Among  the  long  line  of  boys'  faces,  I  could  not  at  first  find 
out  the  two  familiar  ones.  At  last  I  saw  them.  Norman 
looked  gravely  quiet.  Hector  all  gayety  and  happiness.  What 
a  handsome,  bright,  clever  face  it  was ! 

"  There  are  the  rest  of  the  class.  I  was  suie  we  would 
know  them,"  said  Gracie.  "  That  must  be  Andrew  Caird 
at  the  top.  What  a  little  fellow  he  is  to  be  so  clever.  How 
pale  and  delicate  he  looks !  I  wonder  will  he  live  to  be  a 
man]" 

(Gracie  had  a  curious  habit  of  speculating  as  to  whether 
children  she  knew  would  live  to  be  men  and  women.  But 
she  had  so  many  strange  ways,  and  looks,  and  thoughts.) 

"And  there's  that  hateful  Johnnie  Gordon,"  added  I 
"Look,  Hector  is  talking  and  laughing  with  him.  How 
generous  !" 

Gracie  assented,  with  affectionate  eyes.  Nevertheless,  she 
gave  me  a  sign  to  be  quiet ; — for  Doctor  Cowe  was  just  say- 
ing, in  a  pompous  nasal  tone,  which  nearly  made  me  laugh, 

"  The  Reverend  William  Macllroy  will  commence  with 
prayer." 

But  the  inclination  to  laughter  ceased  the  moment  my  uncle 
began.  He  uttered  a  few  solemn,  simple  words  of  extempore 
prayer,  Scottish  fashion,  suited  for  the  occasion,  and  such  as 
boys  could  understand.  He  was  evidently  in  earnest,  a  father 
looking  at  his  own  and  other  fathers'  sons,  all  growing  up, 
either  for  good  or  evil.  He  made  even  thoughtless  lads  in 
earnest,  too,  for  the  moment,  and  there  was  not  a  careless 
gesture  or  a  smile,  until  he  had  ceased. 

"Now  for  Latin  class.  What  shall  it  be,  sir?"  asked 
Doctor  Cowe,  who  was  very  reverential  to  my  uncle,  as  the 
best  classic  present.  There  had  gradually  dropped  in  a  good 


A  HERO.  101 

many  Glasgow  gentlemen— stout  fathers  of  families,  and 
Btupid  bailies — who  looked  very  wise,  but  whom,  as  I  told 
Gracie,  I  should  just  like  to  have  seen  stand  up  and  construe 
a  page  of  Ovid.  We  schoolboys  couid  have  beaten  them 
hollow.  I  know. 

My  uncle  turned  over  his  Virgil.  Doctor  Cowe  handed 
another,  with  a  very  solemn  bow,  to  my  aunt,  and  a  third  to 
Gracie  and  me.  Very  kind  of  the  old  Cowe — and  Gracie  had 
fine  fun  in  making  believe  she  understood  Latin. 

"  We  will  take  the  ^Eneid,  second  Book, 

'At  regina  gravi  jamdudum  saucia  cura.'  " 

bega*l  Uncle  Macllroy,  as  mildly  as  if  he  had  not  the  whole 
poem  at  his  fingers'  ends — as  we  boys  all  knew  he  had,  to- 
gethei  ivith  almost  every  other  Latin  and  Greek  author.  But 
he  bore  his  learning  quite  meekly — a  great  deal  more  so  than 
Doctor  Cowe. 

"Very  well.  Sir.  Now  boys.  Duncan  Brown  first,"  pomp- 
ously cried  the  latter  individual. 

Duncan  Brown  rose  up.  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  him.  He 
was  the  cleverest  lad  in  the  whole  year;  Dux  in  every  thing. 
His  power  of  work  was  prodigious.  He  was  reported  to  have 
sat  up  whole  nights  at  his  books — the  ragged  old  books  that 
Doctor  Cowe  lent  him,  when  he  came,  three  years  ago,  as  a 
big  ignorant  boy,  of  whom  nobody  knew  any  thing  except  that 
his  name  was  Duncan  Brown.  Few  knew  any  thing  more 
now,  except  that  he  had  outstripped  every  lad  beyond  him, 
had  become  the  Doctor's  favorite  pupil,  the  glory  of  the  whole 
class,  and  was  going  next  term  from  Glasgow  High  School 
to  Glasgow  College. 

Gracie  and  I  looked  with  some  curiosity  at  Duncan  Brown. 
I  remember  his  face  quite  well,  even  at  this  distance  of  time 
It  was  very  handsome,  something  like  the  portraits  of  Byron 
a*  a  lad  of  seventeen,  save  that  the  mouth  was  less  full  and 


102  A  HERO. 

more  sweet.  It  was  the  sort  of  head  we  call  aristocratic,  j 
don't,  know  why,  since  there  is  but  one  true  aristocracy,  that 
of  genius  and  talent,  and  this  boy  had  it,  most  surely,  ever, 
though  no  one  knew  where  he  came  from,  and  his  name  was 
Duncan  Brown. 

But  I  am  getting  tedious.  ("No — no — "  said  the  obliging 
nephews.)  Well — well,  I  am  not  going  to  construe  JEneidos, 
Liber  IV.,  with  all  Doctor  Cowe's  corrections,  and  all  Uncle 
Macllroy's  clear  explanations,  and  all  the  ludicrous  hints  of 
a  certain  pompous  bailie,  who  thought  himself  very  learned, 
and  to  whom  Doctor  Cowe  listened  in  polite  silence,  though 
he,  and  all  the  boys,  even  I,  saw  quite  plainly  that  the  old 
fellow  had  mistaken  the  sense  of  the  passage,  and  was  as 
arrant  a  dunce  at  Latin  as  his  own  youngest  son. 

I  shall  pass  lightly  all  this — how  Duncan  Brown  construed 
magnificently,  and  answered  every  thing  that  every  body  else 
could  not  answer,  coming  off  with  wonderful  eclat.  Also  how 
Norman  went  through  his  part  very  creditably,  and  how  Hec- 
tor, twice  as  quick  as  his  brother,  was  in  great  glory,  answer- 
ing his  own  questions  and  a  dozen  others,  some  of  which  were 
wrong,  but  generally  right.  And  how,  altogether,  though 
Uncle  Macllroy  pretended  not  to  notice  his  own  boys,  and 
to  be  absorbed  in  the  general  examination,  it  was  easy  to  see 
how  gratified  Ii6  was,  when  at  the  end  he  stealthily  looked  at 
my  aunt  and  smiled. 

I  could  not  then  understand  why  amidst  all  his  pleasure 
the  tears  stood  in  my  good  aunt's  eyes.  But  it  is  a  weakness 
natural  to  all  mothers,  I  suppose. 

After  the  Virgil  class,  there  were  other  examinations,  which 
I  forget,  only  I  remember  my  two  cousins  got  though  them 
honorably,  and  were  regarded  with  great  pride  and  veneration 
by  Gracie  and  me,  as  well  as  by  Jarnic,  who  was  next  year 
to  be  promoted  to  the  High  School. 

I  also  remember  that,  in  conclusion,  the  old  Cowe  (whose 


A  HERO.  103 

•'  Tail"  for  this  day  only  had  become  invisible)  stood  and  read 
with  much  importance  a  written  speech,  in  which  he  men- 
tioned the  general  behavior  of  the  boys — while  at  the  end  and 
often  in  the  middle  of  every  sentence,  arose  a  great  amount  of 
"  roughing,"  in  response  to  any  thing  or  nothing,  just  because 
the  boy's  feet  wanted  a  little  exercise.  But  when  at  the  last 
occurred  the  name  of  Duncan  Brown,  and  the  worthy  old 
Doctor,  with  a  voice  rather  tremulous,  spoke  earnestly  of  the 
Dux's  industry,  attention,  and  perseverance,  saying  that  he 
had  never  had  a  fault  to  find  with  him  since  he  came  to  the 
school,  and  how,  in  leaving  for  college,  the  best  wishes  of  every 
master — and  he  was  sure  he  might  say  every  class-mate — 
went  with  Duncan  Brown — there  arose  a  perfect  storm  of 
"  roughing,"  of  the  sincerity  of  which  there  could  be  no  doubt. 

The  Dux  rose,  looking  very  pale — bowed  hurriedly — arid 
then  sat  down,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  opposite  form,  the 
massive  forehead,  and  wonderfully  intelligent  eyes  just  visible 
'ibove  his  thread-bare  coat  sleeve. 

"  Good-by  to  Duncan  Brown !"  whispered  Gracie,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I  hope  he  will  be  a  great  man  yet !'' 

"The  other  day,"  said  Uncle  Philip,  pausing  in  his  nar- 
rative, "  I  saw  advertised  a  scientific  lecture  by  a  Professor 
Duncan  Brown,  F.B..S.,  and  D.C.L.,  of  Glasgow.  I  think, 
though  it  is  more  than  twenty  years  since  I  saw  him,  I  should 
almost  recognize  the  lecturer^. 


CII/  PTER  XII. 

("  L  am  now  coming,"  said  Uncle  Philip,  "  to  the  last  pof- 
tion  of  my  history  about  a  Hero.  You  must  give  me  time  to 
think  it  over  carefully,  and  I  will  try  and  remember  it  aa 
closely  as  I  can." 

Every  body  congratulated  him  on  having  hitherto  done 
wonders  in  the  matter  of  memory.  Captain  Carew  smiled. 

"  Perhaps  I  have,  even  to  a  degree  that  may  seem  unnat- 
ural. But  the  coloring  of  childish  recollection  is  often  mar- 
velously  vivid  and  minute ; — and  those  three  months  in  the 
north  exercised  such  an  influence  on  my  after  life-time,  that 
every  trifle  connected  with  the  time,  stands  out  as  clear  as  a 
picture." 

His  beautiful  brown  eyes  grew  thoughtful ;  he  took  his 
youngest  niece  on  his  lap,  played  with  her  baby  curls  for  a 
little,  and  then  began.) 

The  examination  lasted  several  days,  for  there  were  a 
great  many  classes  in  the  High  School.  We  boys,  with  most 
sedulous  pertinacity,  insisted  on  going  to  all,  and  we  tried  hard 
to  persuade  my  aunt  to  do  the  same.  However,  her  interest 
did  not  extend  beyond  her  own  sons,  so  she  staid  at  home 
until  the  last  morning,  when  Norman  coaxed  her  out  to  see 
the  performances  of  the  writing-class. 

It  was  early  in  a  clear  autumn  day  ;  and  no  one  who  had 
seen  the  City  of  the  West  under  foul  aspects  can  imagine 
how  cheery  and  pleasant  Glasgow  looks  on  a  fine  day.  Very 
merrily  did  we  go  down  Buchanan  Street,  my  uncle  and  aunt 
first,  and  we  three  lads  following  Either  Hector  had  got 


A  HERO.  105 

over  his  disappointment  about  the  prizes,  or  eise  his  facile  and 
sanguine  nature  was  content  with  looking  forward  to  the 
medal — which  he  continually  talked  about — and  seemed  to 
expect  with  certainty.  But  by  Norman's  advice,  or  by  tacit 
consent,  we  lads  kept  this  little  mystery  to  ourselves  and  did 
not  enlighten  the  family  ia  general  either  as  to  what  Hector 
had  so  energetically  accomplished  or  what  he  hoped  to  win. 

On  the  High  School  staircase  a  little  incident  occurred 
My  uncle  suddenly  turned  round  and  called  his  eldest  son. 

"  Norman,  I  quite  forgot  to  ask  about  your  Greek  verb,  over 
vvhich  you  were  so  anxious.  Did  you  get  it  finished  all 
right?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Norman  briefly,  glancing  toward  his  brother, 
who  luckily  was  not  within  sight  or  hearing. 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  a  good  chance  of  the  medal  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  know." 

"  Never  mind,  do  not  be  shy  about  it,"  said  the  father, 
kindly.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  tried  your  very  best,  my  boy. 
— I  do  hope  he  will  get  the  medal,"  added  Uncle  Macllroy, 
turning  to  his  wife.  "  for  I  know  how  the  lad's  heart  has  been 
set  upon  it  all  this  year." 

I  looked  at  Norman,  and  Norman  at  me.  This  was  a 
view  of  the  case  which  I  at  least  had  altogether  overlooked. 
"What,"  said  I,  "if Hector— " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  stupid  !"  muttered  Norrnan.  I  knew 
he  must  have  been  in  what  we  called  a  "  a  state  of  mind,"  or 
he  would  not  have  spoken  so  rudely.  I  could  not  tell  what 
to  make  of  him.  But  just  then  Hector  came  leaping  up- 
stairs, and  we  all  went  into  the  writing-room.  All,  I  think> 
except  my  uncle,  who  had  business  elsewhere. 

The  writing  class  made  a  sapital  show.  We  passed  down 
table  after  table  all  covered  with  fine  specimens  of  caligraphy. 
There  were  copy-books  numerous  enough  to  have  been  the 
?7ork  of  all  the  young  scribblers  in  Glasgow  put  together 

E* 


106  A  HERO. 

Hector  went  merrily  down  the  line,  showing  oft1  all  to  hig 
mother,  making  jocular  remarks  on  every  thing  and  every 
body  in  the  room,  which  was  half  full  of  masters,  parents, 
and  ladies.  With  these  latter  Hector  Macllroy  was  always 
quite  a  little  beau,  being  so  handsome,  ready-witted,  and 
gay. 

Norman  kept  rather  in  the  shade.  He  was  generally  very 
quiet-mannered  with  strangers.  More  than  once  I  saw  him 
stand  quite  still  and  thoughtful,  making  believe  to  look  at  the 
copy-books  ;  and  then  there  came  across  me  his  father's  words. 
"  His  heart  has  been  set  upon  it  all  this  year''1  I  couldn't 
understand  rny  cousin  Norman  yet  ! 

One  of  the  masters,  who  was  very  polite  to  my  aunt,  now 
guided  her  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room ;  where,  he  said, 
was  something  that  would  afford  her  great  pleasure. 

There,  hung  against  the  wall  in  all  their  glory,  were  the 
important  Greek  verbs.  Hector  leaped  forward  with  a  flush- 
ing face — Norman  hung  back. 

"  It  is  not  often  our  writing-class  is  so  adorned,"  said  the 
master,  evidently  looking  with  great  pride  on  the  fair  white 
card-board  sheets,  on  which  the  beautifully  written  Greek 
meandered  in  rivers  of  moods  and  tenses,  a  network  of  confu 
sion,  yet  when  one  came  to  examine,  proportioned  in  mos 
perfect  order.  You  can  have  no  idea,  nephews,  what  a  pretty 
thing  was  that  same  Greek  verb.  "  I  was  sure  you  would 
admire  it,  madam,"  continued  the  teacher  smiling,  "  yet  these 
two  are  much  inferior  to  the  one  just  beyond.  Will  you 
look?" 

My  aunt  did  so,  and  hardly  suppressed  an  exclamation  of 
delight  when  she  read,  at  the  corner  of  the  card-board,  "  Hec- 
tor Macllilby." 

"  My  dear  boy,  how  beautiful — how  exquisite  !  When 
did  you  do  it  ?  Why  did  you  never  tell  me  ?"  But  Hectoi 
was  too  pleased  and  proud  to  answer  any  of  these  ques 


A  HERO.  107 

tions.  He  ccald  not  take  his  eyes  from  his  own  handiwork,, 
which  was  so  much  more  successful  than  he  had  dared  tc 
hope. 

"  Indeed  I  must  congratulate  you,  Mrs.  Macllroy,"  said 
the  polite  writing-master — all  masters  are  so  wondrously 
polite  on  examination-days.  "  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
Hector's  winning  the  medal,  except  for  one  possible  rival,  your 
other  son."* 

He  pointed  to  the  last  of  the  four  verbs,  which  was  Nor 
man's.  Hector  started,  and  rushed  to  examine  it.  So  did  I. 
We  were  both  struck  with  a  cold  fear,  a  fear  so  ungenerous, 
that  meeting  each  other's  eyes  we  both  blushed  for  the 
same. 

"  It  is — very — beautiful,"  at  last  said  Hector  boldly,  though 
I  saw  how  his  face  had  changed. 

"Very  beautiful  indeed,"  repeated  the  mother,  looking 
uneasily  at  each  of  her  boys  ;  I  never  knew  any  parent  so 
guarded  in  showing  preference  "  Both  seem  so  good,  I  could 
hardly  tell  which  was  best." 

"  That  is  what  all  we  masters  say.  The  decision  will  be 
tough  I  think  ;  and,  upon,  my  word  I  am  glad  that  judgment 
rests  with  the  Principal,  for  I  should  be  fairly  puzzled. — 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  if  Master  Norman's  were  not  there, 
Master  Hector's  verb  would  be  successful — still — as  it  is. — 
However,  madam,  I  must  congratulate  you  once  more  on 
both  your  sons." 

My  aunt  bowed — the  master  bowed — and  we  passed  on. — 
All  but  Hector,  who  still  leaned  on  the  table,  looking  from 
his  brother's  work  to  his  own,  and  then  back  again.  His 
rosy  face  had  turned  all  colors— his  mouth  had  sunk  in ;  he 
was  evidently  in  extreme  agitation.  I  don't  know  how  Nor- 
man felt,  or  looked,  or  did.  I  only  saw  Hector. 

At  length  the  latter  touched  my  shoulder.  "  Come  out 
with  me,  Phil.  I  feel  so  stupid — so  dizzy."  He  looked  up 


.08  A  HERO. 

and  saw  his  brother  lagging  behind  anxiously.  "  Get  alcng, 
Norman  !  Do  not  be  staring  at  me." 

These  were  the  first  and  last  words  of  anger  the  poor  lad 
said. 

We  were  invited  that  day  to  lunch  with  some  old  ladies, 
who  lived  beyond  Glasgow  Green  ;  and  there  being  no  reason 
to  the  contrary,  we  went.  Norman  walked  with  his  mother 
— Hector  with  me.  We  did  not  speak  a  word  the  whole 
way.  This  was  such  a  new  thing  with  Hector,  always  sc 
loud  and  passionate  in  his  troubles,  that  I  began  to  feel  quite 
frightened.-  He  had  evidently  taken  the  matter  very  deeply 
to  heart.  I  feared  that  in  his  silence  he  might  be  harbor- 
ing the  bitterer  wrath  against  his  brother;  but  it  was  not  so. 

The  old  ladies  gave  us  all  sorts  of  good  things,  and  won- 
dered very  much  that  we  three  hearty  lads  did  not  consume 
all  before  us.  But  for  once  in  a  way  we  were  not  inclined 
to  eat.  For  myself,  I  felt  as  if  the  rosiest  apple  in  the  dish 
would  have  choked  me  like  sawdust.  But  then  I  was  a  very 
soft-hearted  and  sentimental  little  fellow. 

It  was  a  great  relief  when  we  turned  out  into  the  garden 
to  gather  apples  for  ourselves. 

I  don't  know  v/hether  it  was  the  apples  that  put  it  into  my 
mind,  but  when  I  saw  the  two  brothers  left  alone  together; 
T  had  an  uncomfortable  recollection  of  Cain  and  Abel.  I 
wondered  very  much  what  my  cousin  would  do. 

At  first,  they  diverged  apart,  each  taking  an  opposite  path, 
Hector  pulling  the  leaves  of  gooseberry  bushes,  and  Norman 
walking  quietly  on,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  until  by  some 
sudden  turn  the  two  paths  met,  and  the  brothers  likewise. 
The  elder  put  his  hands  on  the  younger's  shoulders,  and  looted 
him  in  the  face — so  kindly — so  sorrowfully  ! 

"  Hector  !" 

"  Well,  Norman  !" 

"  You  are  not  vexed  ?" 


A  HERO.  109 

Hector  paused,  and  at  length  said,  sturdily,  though  it  must 
have  cost  him  much.  "  No,  I'm  not.  It's  a  fair  fight — quite 
fair.  If  I  lose,  I  lose." 

"  That  is  not  sure  yet." 

Hector  brightened  up,  but  only  for  a  minute.  "  No,  no '. 
However,  if  I  must  -be  beaten,  it  is  better  to  be  beaten  by 
you ;  mind,  I  acknowledge  that.  Now,  we'll  talk  no  more 
about  it — it  makes  me  sick." 

He  did  indeed  look  very  wretched  arid  ill,  and  soon  his 
mother  saw  it  would  be  advisable  to  take  him  home,  and  let 
his  feelings  grow  calm  of  themselves.  I  thought  I  had  better 
keep  out  of  the  way,  so  I  walked  back  alone,  Norman  having 
already  started.  Nobody  knew  wherefore — but  he  was  such 
a  strange  boy. 

Passing  by  the  High  School  I  thought  I  would  just  go  ii». 
once  more — to  judge  for  myself,  quietly  and  alone,  which  of 
the  two  Greek  verbs  had  the  best  chance.  It  was  getting 
almost  dark,  and  many  of  the  masters  were  leaving.  In 
the  writing-room  were  a  few  figures  moving  about  with 
lights  putting  by  the  copy-books,  and  taking  down  the  or- 
namental writing  that  was  fastened  to  the  walls.  One  of 
the  junior  masters  was  in  the  act  of  rolling  up  the  Greek 
verbs. 

"  Stop  a  minute,  please,  Mr.  Renton,  let  me  take  one  more 
look." 

"  And  me  too,"  cried  another  lad,  rushing  up  the  room 
quite  breathless.  It  was  Norman. 

Seeing  me,  he  started  back  surprised,  and,  as  I  thought, 
a  good  deal  confused,  but  soon  recovered  himself.  We  looked 
together  at  the  two  sheets — we  and  the  master.  There  was 
no  doubt  which  verb  was  done  the  best — even  if  Mr.  Renton 
had  not  said  so. 

"  Yes,  you  will  surely  get  the  rnedal,  Macllroy ;  still,  I'm 
rather  sorry  for  your  brother  Hector.  Hey  there  !" — as  some 


110  A  HERO. 

body  happened  to  call  him — "  Lads,  stay  here  a  minute,  only 
mind  the  candle  and  the  ink-bottle — Norman,  that  is  your 
own  verb  you're  holding — take  care  !" 

I  looked  at  my  cousin  for  a  minute — he  was  extremely 
pale,  arid  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  an  inexplicable  expression 
on  his  work — done  with  such  patience,  hope,  and  pains.  He 
regarded  it  so  lovingly,  that,  remembering  Hector,  I  felt  quite 
vexed  and  walked  away. 

A  minute  after,  there  was  a  great  splash — crash — ink- 
bottle  arid  card-board  rolling  together  on  the  floor.  The 
master  came  up  in  a  passion,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  fair 
white  sheet  was  covered  with  a  deluge  of  ink.  One  of  the 
verbs  was  irretrievably  spoiled. 

"  It's  my  own — only  my  own,"  stammered  Norman.  "  I 
did  it  myself,  acci — " 

He  might  have  been  going  to  say  accidentally,  but  stopped 
ibr  it  would  have  been  the  first  lie  the  boy  ever  told.  The 
moment  I  looked  in  his  face,  I  felt  convinced  he  had  turned 
over  the  ink-bottle  on  purpose. 

I  will  not  now  stop  to  discuss  whether  this  act  was  right 
wrong.  I  only  know  he  did  it. 

Having  done  it,  he  stood  shaking  all  over,  as  nervous  and 
agitated  as  a  lad  could  be  ;  but  Mr.  Renton  and  the  other 
masters  were  too  busy  and  angry  to  notice  this.  They  merely 
called  him  a  "  careless  gouk" — and  thought  it  a  just  punish- 
ment that  he  should  have  only  ruined  himself. 

*' Your  brother  Hector  is  sure  of  the  medal  now,  and  I'm 
glad,  ibr  he  deserves  it" — said  one. 

"  Now,  if  you  had  had  his  verb  in  your  hands,  the  case 
would  have  looked  suspicious  against  you,"  said  another. 
"  But  nobody  would  be  such  a  fool  as  to  go  and  destroy  hid 
own  work,  except  by  accident." 

"•  A  pretty  figure  you'll  cut  at  the  prize- giving,"  observed 
Mr.  Renton.  "  And  what  will  your  father  say  ?" 


A  HERO.  Ill 

The  poor  fellow  winced.  I  ran  up  to  him — "  Oh,  Norman, 
Norman !"  He  saw  from  my  looks  that  I  guessed  all. 

"Hush,  Phil!"  and  he  clutched  my  wrist  as  tight  as  a 
vice.  "  If  you  ever  tell,  I'll — " 

What  savage  purpose  he  meant — declaring  it  with  that 
broken,  tremulous  voice — I  never  knew.  I  only  know  that 
he  somehow  dragged  rne  after  him  into  the  open  air,  and 
that  there,  quite  overcome,  we  both  sat  down  on  the  stone 
elcps — and,  I  do  believe,  big  lads  as  we  were,  we  both  cried. 

Norman  made  me  promise  that  I  would  never  "  let  on,"  as 
he  expressed  it.  I  never  did—until  this  day. 

("Well,"  said  Captain  Carew,  coming  to  an  anchor,  "does 
any  body  want  to  know  any  more  V 

Every  body  did  want  to  know  a  deal  more — indeed  suffi- 
cient questions  were  asked  to  keep  Uncle  Philip's  tongue 
going  till  midnight. 

"  Hout  tout!'"  as  my  Uncle  Macllroy  would  say,  this  will 
never  do.  I  can't  engage  to  give  a  biography  of  all  that  has 
happened  to  all  my  cousins  for  the  last  twenty  years.  I  only 
bargained  to  tell  you  the  story  of  my  discovering  a  Hero. 
Who  was  he  ?" 

Some  made  divers  guesses,  others  begged  to  hear  a  little 
more  before  they  finally  decided.) 

I  have  little  more  to  tell.  I  don't  reccollect  much  about 
the  prize-giving ;  I  suppose  my  heart  was  too  full.  I  only 
remember  sitting  in  a  crowded  church  (they  usually  give 
away  the  prizes  in  the  Kirk,  in  Scotland),  seeing  boys'  faces 
filling  every  pew,  and  amidst  them  all  discerning  clearly  but 
one  face — my  cousin  Norman's :  hearing  a  long  droning  speech, 
interrupted  with  much  "  roughing,"  which  sounded  rather 
strange  in  a  church  ;  watching  a  long  line  of  boys  winding  -ap 
one  aisle  and  down  another,  past  the  precentor's  desk,  where 
they  each  bowed,  got  something,  and  vanished ;  listening  for 
the  name  "  Hector  MacIlrDy,"  and  seeing  him  go  up  rather 


112  A  HERO. 

gravely,  and  coi.ie  back  looking  so  handsome  and  pleased; 
wearing  the  red  ribbon  and  shining  medal.  As  he  did  so,  I 
mind  above  all,  matching  the  eye  of  my  cousin  Norman,  that 
gray  eye — so  soft — so  good,  though  the  mouth  was  a  little 
quivering,  until  at  last  it  settled  into  a  quiet  smile.  Then 
I  felt  very  proud  to  think  that  in  the  whole  assembly,  nay 
in  the  whole  world,  he  arid  I  alone  knew — what  we  knew 
And  looking  at  him,  as  he  sat  there  so  quiet  and  unnoticed, 
I  felt  prouder  still  to  think  that  I  had  learnt  one  thing  more 
— I  had  at  last  discovered — 

"  A  Hero !"  shouted  all  the  nephews  together.  "  Norman 
was  the  Hero  !" 

(Uncle  Philip  nodded ;  but  somehow  his  voice  was  husky, 
and  he  leaned  his  forehead  on  his  little  niece's  curls  for  a  good 
while  before  he  spoke.  However,  when  he  did  speak,  it  was 
in  his  usual  loud,  cheerful  voice.) 

"  Boys,  you  are  quite  right !  Since  that  time  the  young 
Macllroys  have  been  scattered  far  and  wide.  At  this  moment 
probably,  Hector  is  sailing  in  his  vessel  round  Cape  Horn  ; 
James  jabbering  Hindostanee  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges: 
Willie  devoting  his  inquiring  mind  to  the  parallax  of  the  fixed 
stars ;  and  wee  Wattie  speculating  whether  or  not  he  shall 
marry  and  settle  like  a  Christian  in  Scotland,  or  go  out  like  a 
heathen  to  the  '  diggings'  in  California." 

"And  one," — added  he,  with  a  sudden  pause  and  lowering 
of  tone — "  one  of  my  dear  cousins  is  with  God." 

"But,"  and  shortly  afterward  Uncle  Philip  spoke  on  brave- 
ly, as  a  good  man  should  speak,  who  has  learned  life's  hardest 
lesson,  to  bear  and  conquer  sorrow.  "  But  if  among  all  these 
you  should  ask  me  to  point  out  the  one  most  honored,  and  most 
worthy  of  honor,  I  would  send  you  to  a  certain  town  in  Scot- 
land, where,  in  a  certain  house,  sits  a  certain  honest  man- 
husband  of  a  wife,  and  father  of  a  family — " 

— "No;'  shouted  Uncle  Philip,  suddenly  darting  to  the 


4   HERO.  113 

window,  clearing  the  room  at  a  bound,  "  he  doesn't  sit  there 
at  all.  He  is  now  standing  at  our  gate.  I  knew  he  would, 
for  he  promised.  And,  having  promised,  he  was  as  sure  to 
come  as — as  the  New  Year  !  Wait  till  he  shakes  the  snow  off 
his  plaid,  and  then  you'll  see  him,  my  boyish  playfellow,  the 
friend  of  my  manhood,  my  cousin  Norman  Macllroy  !  But, 
oh  lads !  for  any  sake,  don't  let  him  suspect  I  have  just  been 
showing  him  up  in  a  character  which  he  has  sustained,  and 
will  sustain,  all  his  life,  without  ever  knowing  it — that  of 

A  HERO." 


BIIEAD  UPON  THE  WATERS 


GOVERNESS'S    LIFE. 


W&OSIBB'* 


A    WOMAN, 


7SB    OAIL7     RECORD    OP    WHOSE    LIPE    RESEMBLES    THAT    Or    HIM, 
«H."«   D1VI3IK  STEPS  SHK  FOLL  D\YP,  "WHO  WE>T  JIBOUT  DOIXG  OOOD." 


BREAD    UPCN   THE   WATERS. 


PART  I. 

IT  is  to-day  ten  months  since  my  mother  died,  and  my 
father  has  told  me  that  he  is  about  to  bring  home  another 
wife ! — Another  mistress  of  the  household,  another  Mrs.  Lyne, 
usurping  her  place,  her  name  !  How  shall  I  ever  bear  it ! 

I  do  not  think  I  share  the  usual  prejudice  against  step- 
mothers. I  know  perfectly  well,  no  daughter,  even  if  grown 
up,  can  be  to  her  father  the  comfort  that  a  wife  is  ;  and  many 
men,  loving  their  first  wives  ever  so  dearly,  have  in  time  mar- 
ried again.  My  dear  mother  during  her  long  illness  several 
times  hinted  this  to  me,  accidentally  as  it  were,  yet  with 
meaning.  But,  in  one  sense,  the  parallel  did  not  hold  ;  for 
she  was  not  "  loved  dearly  ;" — never,  alas  !  since  the  first 
sunny  year  of  her  marriage,  wherein  I  was  born,  and  she,  out 
of  her  deep  happiness,  called  me  Felicia. 

I  knew,  1  felt,  that  my  father  would  marry  again.  These 
two  months  I  have  been  trying  to  reason  myself,  ay,  and  my 
little  brothers  too,  into  some  preparation  for  what  must  come 
in  time.  I  even  thought  that  we  might  learn  to  love  his 
wife — I  and  the  two  poor  little  fellows  to  whom  the  name  of 
'*  father"  has  always  been  a  name  of  fear — that  is,  if  she  were 
a  good  woman.  But — that  woman  ! 


118  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

That  woman,  with  the  paint  scarce  wiped  off  hor  face,  to 
come  and  lay  her  head  on  the  sacred  pillow  where  my  mother 
died  ! — That  woman,  whose  name  has  been  for  years  the 
town's  talk,  to  bear  the  name  which,  sorrowful  as  her  life  was, 
my  pure  mother  bore  unsullied  to  her  grave  !  It  is  hard,  very 
hard  ! — nay,  it  is  horrible  ! 

Yet  there  is  no  alternative ;  they  are  already  married — rny 
father  told  me  so.  He  has  given  me  the  choice,  to  prepare  to 
welcome  her  here,  or  to  go  out  myself  into  the  wide  cruel 
world — I  think  I  would,  except  for  those  little  ones,  my  broth- 
ers, to  whom,  since  our  mother  died,  I  have  tried  to  be  mother 
and  sister  both.  For  their  sakes  I  must  have  patience. 

All  day  I  have  tried  to  exercise  what,  young  and  inex- 
perienced as  I  am,  my  mother  always  said  I  had — a  clear 
judgment,  a  power  of  subduing  weak  womanly  emotions 
and  prejudices,  and  seeing  only  the  right.  I  think  I  see  it 
now. 

My  father  is  perfectly  free  to  marry,  and  to  marry  whom 
he  pleases ;  no  daughter  can  or  ought  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
that.     But  oh ! — if  his  wife  had  only  been  a  good  woman 
nay,  even  an  honest,  respectable  woman  !     His  very  house 
keeper  would  have  been  preferable  to . 

No ;  I  will  be  just  and  merciful,  as  my  poor  mother  was: 
ever,  to  all  sinners.  This  woman  may  not  be  so  bad  as  the 
world  paints  her ;  for  the  world  is  very  cruel,  and  a  beautiful 
public  singer  must  often  be  maligned.  Even  granting  those 
things  which  can  not  be  contradicted,  I  have  heard  that  kind- 
ness and  generosity  have  ere  now  lingered  even  in  the  heart 
of  a  Magdalen. 

I  will  not  leave  my  home  and  my  brothers,  nor — 


I  was  obliged  to  break  off,  and  go  down  to  our  friend  Mr. 
Redwood.  I  wonder  if  he  saw  that  any  thing  was  wrong 
with  me,  that  I  could  not  sing  when  he  asked  me.  I  wonder 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.         119 

too,  does  he  know  of  what  will  happen  in  our  family  ?  and 
what  will  he  think  of  it  ?  Will  he  come  here  as  usual,  and 
will  his  mother  ? — To  think  of  the  Honorable  Mrs.  R-edwood 
visiting  the  woman  my  father  has  chosen  for  his  second  wife ' 
Impossible ! 

Oh  !  I  wish,  I  wish  I  could  have  told  him — Mr.  Redwood, 
1  mean.  But  how  could  1,  a  mere  girl,  and  he  so  young  a 
man  ?  Besides,  I  had  no  right ;  for  he  is  still  but  a  friend,  or 
rather  acquaintance.  Only — sometimes — He  said  he  was 
coming  again  next  Wednesday ;  and  I  until  this  minute  have 
forgotten  that  that  is  the  very  day  my  father  told  me  they 
would  come  home, — he  and — Mrs.  Lyne ;  for  I  must  teach 
myself  that  dreaded  word. 

Ah  me  !  ah,  my  poor  little  brothers  !  ah,  my  dear  mother, 
my  own  mother,  who  knows  riot  what  we  suffer,  and  to  whom 
no  suffering  can  ever  come  more ! — For  that,  amidst  all  my 
weepings,  I  look  up,  and  thank  God ! 

They  have  come  home,  and  I  have  seen  my  step-mother  foi 
the  first  time.  She  was  very  sweet  and  gracious,  both  to  me 
and  to  the  boys ;  and  she  is,  oh  !  such  a  handsome  woman  ! 
Dressed  for  the  evening,  she  did  not  look  above  thirty.  What 
a  contrast  to  my  poor  sick  mother,  worn  out  before  her  time  ! 
But  I  must  not  suffer  myself  to  dwell  on  these  things. 

Mrs.  Lyne  entered  the  house  with  an  easy  grace,  all  smiles. 
She  said  it  was  a  pretty  house.  I  had  taken  pains  to  have 
all  in  order  for  her ;  for  I  wished  to  please  my  father,  if  1 
could.  After  the  house,  she  took  notice  of  us,  shook  hands 
with  me  and  Henry,  and  would  have  kissed  dear  little  Aleck, 
but  he  pouted  and  refused.  She  only  laughed,  and  said  "  he 
was  a  pretty  fellow  nevertheless." 

My  heart  was  ready  to  burst,  knowing  how  like  the  child 
is  to  his  mother. 

Nevertheless,  both  Henry  and  Aleck  got  sociable  with  hei 


120  BREAD  UPON  THE   WATERS,. 

toward  the  end  of  the  evening ;  for  she  was  so  bewitching  ir. 
her  manners,  and  children  of  seven  and  ten  are  so  easily  im- 
pressible. My  father  showed  at  first  a  little  embarrassment ; 
but  she  soon  talked  all  that  away.  I  never  knew  a  woman 
with  such  irresistible  powers  of  conversation. 

For  myself,  I  think  I  behaved,  as  I  had  hoped  and  prayed 
I  might  behave — with  quiet  self-control,  rendering  courtesy 
where  courtesy  was  due.  In  this  I  was  helped,  and  many  of 
the  discomforts  of  the  evening  smoothed  down,  by  Mr.  Red- 
wood, who,  not  having  received  my  message  through  his  moth- 
er, appeared  as  he  had  at  first  promised.  I  can  not  tell  if  he 
had  known  or  guessed  the  change  in  our  family  ;  but  whether 
or  not,  he  sustained  his  difficult  position  admirably  well.  For 
even  at  his  age,  he  is  at  once  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  the 
world  ;  though  the  world  has. not  spoiled  him. 

I  wonder  if  he  thought  my  step-mother  handsome  !  She 
talked  to  him  a  good  deal,  and  he  always  answered  with  court- 
esy ;  but  it  was  evident  he  liked  better  to  stay  with  the  little 
boys  and  me.  He  played  a  game  at  draughts  with  Henry, 
and  told  Aleck  a  wonderful  story  about  a  hobgoblin  ;  then  he 
went  away.  As  he  shook  my  hand,  I  felt  his  eye  upon  me 
with  such  a  kind,  pitying  look  that  I  could  hardly  keep  down 
my  tears.  Oh  !  he  knows  what  I  must  suffer — he  has  such 
a  gentle  heart ! 

Surely  men  can  not  be  all  tyrants,  all  selfish !     Surely- 
though  rny  mother's  sore  experience  at  times  taught  me  al- 
most to  doubt  the  fact — there  must  be  in  the  world  such  a 
thing  as  a  good  husband  and  a  happy  marriage  ! 

"  All  things  are  less  dreadful  than  they  seem." 

How  truthfully  that  line  of  Wordsworth's  rings  in  my  ear 
to-night,  when,  having  looked  at  rny  brothers  asleep  in  their 
little  beds,  and  seen  that  the  house  is  all  quiet  and  safe — for 
it  is  not  till  to-morrow  morning  that  I  relinquish  the  key*  to 


EREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  121 

my  step-mother — I  have  come  up  to  my  own  room,  to  Chink 
over  the  events  of  the  day  before  it  closes. 

Nevertheless,  I  am  very  glad  that  this  dreaded  evening  is 
over. 

Oh  !  mother,  my  mother,  of  whom  is  my  last  thought  at 
night,  whose  example  I  desire  and  strive  in  all  things  to  fol- 
low— you  see,  O  mother  !  how  I  try  to  do  my  duty,  let  what 
will  be  the  end — even  as  you  did,  until  God  took  you  from 
my  iove  unto  His  own  ! 


It  was  Henry's  birth-day  to-day. 

{Mem.  inserted,  as  are  several  others,  evidently  of  a  much  later  d.2le 
than  the  original  diary. 

Henry  was  ten  years  old,  I  remember,  a. id  the  finest  little  fellov/ 
imaginable,  the  pride  of  the  whole  Square.  He  was  very  tall  anU 
large  made  for  his  age  ;  indeed,  he  used  to  torment  me  by  stealing 
my  slippers  and  gloves,  pretending  that  they  fitted  him  exactly,  which 
indeed  was  a  blessing,  otherwise,  he  would  have  gone  short  enough, 
poor  fellow  !  After  the  first  three  months  of  our  father's  marriage, 
Mrs.  Lyne  used  to  say  that  children  were  always  wanting  some 
thing. 

Yet  I  dressed  them  very  simply,  my  two  boys — for  I  began  to  call 
them  mine,  seeing  there  was  no  one  else  to  claim  them.  I  could 
see  them  now,  in  their  dark  green  blouses  and  leather  belts,  each 
with  his  books  under  his  arm,  just  as  they  used  to  look  turning  tbo 
corner  of  our  Square  when  coming  home  daily  from  school.  They 
were  such  handsome  boys  !) 

Henry's  birth-day  ! — We  always,  in  the  worst  of  times, 
made  birth-days  pleasant  days — but  this  has  been  very  sad. 

It  began  ill.  At  breakfast  I  reminded  my  father  of  the 
day,  and  hinted  what  he  had  long  promised  Henry  as  a 
birth-day  present — a  box  of  tools  at  Hohzapffel's  in  Charing 
Cross. 

Mrs.  Lyne  lifted  her  eyebrows,  and  reasoned  mildly  about 
the  "  evil  of  extravagance." 

Now,  since  she  has  brought  into  the  house  many  luxuries 
-  -expensive  even  to  my  father's  large  ir.corne — I  thought  this 

F 


122  MEAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

not  quite  right ;  still  I  argued  arid  entreated  a  little  more  ; 
1  knew  how  the  boy  longed  for  his  birth-day  present. 

"  Felicia,"  said  my  father,  after  his  wife  had  talked  with 
him  apart,  in  her  smooth  low  voice  ;  "  you  spoil  those  boys 
too  much.  They  should,  as  Mrs.  Lyrie  says,  be  taught  self- 
denial,  not  extravagance.  I  will  have  no  more  presents  given 
them  on  any  pretext  whatever." 

So  Henry  lost  his  delight.  Heaven  forgive  me  if  my  heart 
burned  against  my  father  ;  but  I  thought  it  very  hard,  es- 
pecially as  the  case  was  only  one  out  of  many,  in  which  that 
bland  moralizing  voice  had  interfered  between  the  children 
and  their  little  pleasures. 

Henry  was  indignant  too,  for  he  was  of  a  high  spirit,  and 
had  forced  me  to  tell  him  the  truth  ; — indeed  I  never  can  tell 
any  thing  else — all  ccmes  out  of  me  sooner  or  later.  And 
when,  in  honor  of  the  day,  he  dined  with  us,  he  was  not 
quite  so  pleasant  as  he  ought  to  have  been  and  was  expected 
to  be.  At  last,  seeing  a  storm  rising,  for  there  had  been  from 
the  first  a  curious  antipathy  between  our  smiling,  soft-spoken 
step-mother  and  Henry,  who,  I  must  confess,  is  passionate  and 
rather  rough  mannered — I  rose  early  from  table,  that  I  might 
get  him  out  of  harm's  way. 

We  happened  to  go  into  the  outer  hall,  just  to  cool  our 
selves,  whon  we  were  quite  startled  by  a  man  sitting  there, 
who  caught  hold  of  me,  and  addressed  me  rudely,  as  Mrs. 
Lyne  ?''  1  said,  "  No  :  I  was  Miss  Lyne  ;  did  he  want  Mrs. 
Lyrie.  He  answered,  "  Yes  ;  but  he  could  wait,  since  he 
knew  she  was  in  the  house  :"  and  his  manner  was  so  uncivil 
that  I  was  glad  to  get  away. 

About  tea-time,  the  footman  whispered  Mrs.  Lyne  that 
some  person  had  been  waiting  all  the  evening  in  the  hall,  to 
see  her.  She  went  out  hastily,  and  returned  after  a  good 
while,  her  cheeks  flushed  even  beyond  their  usual  steady  color 

"  Who  was  it  wanted  you  ?"  asked  my  father,  carelessly 


BltEAD  UPON   THE    WATERS.  123 

"  Only  my  dress-maker." 

Henry,  who  had  just  crept  up-stairs,  pullo.l  my  sleeve, 
with  a  look  of  great  astonishment,  and  whispered,  "  That's 
not  true,  sister — it  was  the  man." 

"  Mrs.  Lyne's  eye — she  has  such  a  glaring  black  eye  ai 
limes — was  upon  us  in  a  minute,  and  my  father's  too. 

"  What  are  you  whispering,  sir  ?''  said  he  sharply  to 
Henry. 

Now  the  little  fellow  has  one  quality  that  would  atone  for 
a  hundred  faults  ;  he  always  tells  the  direct  truth.  He  an- 
swered at  once,  "I  said,  it  was  a  man  who  wanted  Mrs. 
Lyne — a  great,  dirty  man,  with  black  whiskers  and  a  hooked 
nose  ; — it  was  !  for  I  saw  them  talking." 

My  father  looked  furious.     "  What  did  they  say  ]" 

"  He  asked  her  to  pay  his  bill,  I  thought  ;  but  I  did  not 
stay  listening  :  I  never  do,"  said  Harry  proudly. 

Each  moment  I  expected  Mrs.  Lyne  would  burst  out  in  a 
passion,  but  she  did  not  :  she  only  smiled,  and  twirled  her 
handkerchief.  "  Mr.  Lyne,  my  business  was  certainly  with 
my  dress-maker.  I  thought  you  knew  already  that  your  son 
has  a  habit  of — of  deviating  from  truth,  and  is  certainly  a 
leetle  revengeful.  I  fear  I  stayed  your  too  lavish  hand  toward 
him  this  morning.  Poor  fellow  ! — but  I  can  forgive." 

She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  smiling  her  sweetest 
smile,  first  at  Henry,  and  then  at  my  father ;  at  which,  com- 
pletely reassured,  he  would  hear  no  words  from  my  brother 
or  from  me.  The  scene  ended  in  Harry's  receiving  the 
crudest  indignity  a  spirited  lad  can  suffer — stripes;  he  cry- 
ing out  all  the  while  "  that  he  had  spoken  only  the  truth, 
and  sister  knew  it  was  so." 

His  sister  did  know  it,  and  frantically  declared  the  same, 
and  the  result  was — But  I  have  no  business  to  think  of  my 
own  wrongs. 

I  have  kissed  and  wept  over  rny  poor  boy.     I  have  prayed 


124  BUEAD   UFOI^J   THE  WATEfU. . 

for  him  and  for  myself.  What  shall  we  do  ? — I  can  not 
tell 

After  writing  this,  mechanically,  with  I  scarce  know 
what  intent,  I  went  to  count  over  what  money  I  had  ;  rny 
allowance  having  been  paid  me  that  day.  I  had  left  it 
open  in  my  dressing-case,  carelessly  enough,  as  rich  men's 
daughters  do.  I  found  it  gone !  and  never,  though  it  is 
three  weeks  since  Henry's  fatal  birth-day,  have  I  seen  01 
heard  of  it. 

The  poor  lads  can  have  no  pleasures  for  a  whole  six 
months,  now ;  but  then  I  shall  be  of  age,  and  have  twenty 
pounds  a  year  of  my  own — my  very  own  !  Oh,  how  wel- 
come it  will  be  !  I  never  knew  money's  worth  till  now. 


I  have  had  to  give  up  my  pretty  little  bedchamber.  It 
happens  to  be  next  my  stepmother's,  and  she  wants  it  for  her 
maid  :  so  I  am  sent  to  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house.  For 
some  things  I  do  not  mind  the  change — it  is  so  pleasant  to 
catch  even  a  dim  glimpse  of  Harnpstead  over  the  forest  of 
chimney-pots 

Then  my  little  brothers  like  it,  for  it  is  near  theirs,  and  is 
such  a  refuge  from  the  racketing  and  turmoil  going  on 
below.  We  sit  there  whole  evenings,  and  plan  what  we 
would  do  if  we  all  three  lived  together,  far  out  in  the  quiet 
country  ;  and  I  tell  them  of  all  the  country  pleasures  I  used 
to  have,  years  ago,  with  the  three  little  sisters  who  came 
between  me  and  Henry,  and  died  when  they  were  young,  I 
only  Using  left. 

— I  am  glad  I  lived,  if  only  for  the  poor  boys'  sake. 

Yesterday,  at  one  of  our  parties.  I  overheard  Mrs.  Lyne 
Baying — what  from  her  sharp  glance  and  smile  I  do  believe 
r.he  intended  me  to  overhear — "  that  it  would  be  an  excellent 
thing  if  Felicia  were  married." 

She   likewise   added,    apropos  of  something   her  neighboi 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.         125 

said,  which  something  I  do  not  care  to  write  down,  "  Oh,  no 
poor  Felicia  would  never  please  a  young  man  of  taste  and 
intellect — how  could  she,  with  her  little  doll-like  face,  and 
n>  manners  whatsoever  ?" 

I  had  been  dull  enough  that  night,  as  I  often  was  ;  nc 
one,  at  least  no  one  I  cared  to  talk  with,  ever  appearing  at 
Mrs.  Lyne's  soirees.  Her  words  kept  haunting  me — foolishly 
enough ;  but  when  one  is  young  one  has  such  a  longing  1c 
he  thought  pleasing — such  a  bashful  terror  of  one's  self! 

It  is  true  I  have  blue  eyes,  and  long,  light  curls ;  but  am 
I  really  so  doll-like  and  insipid-looking  ?  I  asked  Aleck  the 
question  to-day,  in  jest,  of  course  ;  and  the  wicked  little  iel- 
low  laughed  in  my  face,  and  said,  somebody  once  told  him  he 
ought  to  be  proud  of  such  a  sweet  sister  and  especially  of  her 
"  pretty,  pretty  curls."  But  who  it  was  he  would  not  tell, 
and  nothing  could  make  him. 

What  a  precocious,  pert  little  creature  Aleck  is  growing  ! 
And  when  I  confessed  about  Mrs.  Lyne's  unkind  speech 
how  both  the  boys  did  torment  me,  calling  me  "  Miss  Doll  p< 
But  I  deserved  it  all  for  my  ridiculous  vanity. 


To-day  has  been  a  day  which,  in  our  quiet  life,  solitary 
amidst  a  whirl  of  gayety,  seems  full  of  adventure. 

It  was  the  first  Monday  of  the  boys'  Midsummer  holidays, 
ana  we  went  out  for  a  long  walk  ;  nobody  forbidding,  which 
was  rare.  The  lads  dragged  me  on  and  on,  even  as  far  as 
Hampstead  ;  where,  with  a  sudden  thought  of  strawberries 
and  cream  this  time  last  year,  they  wanted  me  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Redwood.  But  I  could  not.  Since  my  father's  mar- 
riage I  have  scarcely  seen  her,  or  any  of  the  family,  except 
that  Mr.  Godfrey  Redwood  sometimes  has  called  ;  and  once 
or  twice  has  met  my  brothers  on  their  way  from  school,  and 
brought  them  home.  He  is  so  kind  to  them  always,  and 
they  are  wildly  fond  of  him.  I  could  hardly  make  therr 


126         BREAD  UPON  THE  WATEES. 

understand  why  we  must  stay  on  the  Heath,  and  riot  intrude 
ourselves  at  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Redwood's. 

It  is  a  pleasant  place — that  Heath  !  All  day,  Harry. 
Aleck,  and  I,  wandered  up  and  down,  hiding  among  furze 
and  fern,  lying  on  beds  of  thyme.  More  than  once  the  boys 
made  me  sing  at  the  very  top  of  my  voice,  which  I  actually 
did — I  felt  so  cheerful — though  doubtless  the  act  was  rather 
improper,  and  would  have  justified  my  step-mother  in  her 
declaration,  that  I  had  "  no  manners  whatsoever." 

I  took  great  care  to  keep  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  Heath 
to  where  the  Redwoods  lived.  Yet  it  happened  somehow, 
that  as,  rather  tired  out,  we  were  thinking  of  coming  home, 
we  were  overtaken  by  Mr.  Godfrey  Redwood.  He  joined 
t's,  saying  he  was  himself  going  to  town. 

He  walked  with  us  across  the  Heath,  first  holding  the  two 
boys  on  either  hand.  Then  bidding  Aleck  see  how  weary 
Sister  looked,  he  slipped  the  child  off,  and  quietly  gave  me  his 
arm.  We  had  never  before  walked  together  thus,  out  of 
doors,  in  the  open  day. 

It  was  a  pleasant  evening,  and  we  talked  of  many  things, 
chiefly  about  the  boys,  and  about  his  going  abroad  the  follow- 
ing week  for  two  months  or  so.  He  went  very  unwillingly, 
he  told  rne.  However,  he  promised  Henry  to  write  him  word 
of  all  the  wonders  of  the  Alps,  and  even  to  bring  him  home  some- 
thing from  the  very  spot  where  William  Tell  shot  at  thi 
apple,  which  greatly  delighted  the  boy.  So  talking,  he  went 
with  us  the  whole  way,  and  said  good-by  at  our  door.  We 
had  all  enjoyed  our  walk  so  much,  and  were  so  happy,  that  I 
never  uttered  a  less  sad  good-by.  I  hardly  remembered  he 
was  going  a  .vay  at  all,  until  the  children  obstinately  refused 
to  enter  the  house  without  seeing  •'  the  last  of  him." 

So  we  all  stood  at  the  door  and  watched  him  round  the 
Square.  At  the  corner  he  turned  round,  perceived  us,  lifted 
his  hat  and  bowed.  Then  we  saw  him  no  more. 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  127 

(No  more  !  The  youth  Godfrey  Redwood — so  graceful,  manly 
gentle,  ay  and  I  eautiful-~for  he  was  beautiful,  in  heart  as  in  face— 
[  never  saw  any  more  !) 


Every  week,  every  day,  our  life  at  home  grows  darker  and 
darker.  I  am  my  father's  daughter  in  nothing  but  the  name, 
and  in  an  existence  of  forced  blank  idleness,  which  makes  md 
envy  the  very  housemaid  at  her  toil. 

For  rny  two  poor  boys,  they  are  being  slowly  ruined.  Con- 
stant punishment  is  changing  Harry's  frank  temper  into  the 
ferocity  of  a  young  tiger;  and  yesterday,  I  heard  my  innocent 
Aleck — his  mother's  darling,  and  her  very  image — I  heard 
Aleck  with  frightened  lips  stammer  out — a^lie! 

If  she  had  heard  him — she  who  with  dying  breath  left  him 
to  my  charge  ! 

I  sometimes  think,  when  wandering  through  our  beautiful 
house,  or  dining  at  our  luxurious  table — If  people  did  but 
know  !  And  then  all  sorts  of  frantic  ideas  swim  through  my 
mind,  slowly  forming  themselves  into  unutterable  longings. 

To-day  I  read  in  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon  : — 

Better  is  a  dinner  of  kerbs  ivhere  love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox 
and  hatred  therewith. 

Better  is  a  dry  morsel  and  quietness  therewith,  than  an 
housefidl  of  sacrifices  with  strife. 

I  wonder,  is  it  very  hard  to  earn  one's  bread  ? 

My  twenty-first  birthday  has  come  and  gone,  without  any 
celebration  except  that  of  tears.  Only,  one  consciousness 
forced  itself  upon  my  mind :  I  am  of  age,  and  my  own  rnis 
tiess  now. 

It  is  nearly  Christmas.  Mr.  Redwood  wrote  Harry  word 
that  he  should  be  at  home  by  the  New  Year,  to  keep  his  own 
coming  of  age,  which  I  knew  was  just  one  month  after  mine 
Yet  how  much  older  he  always  seemed  than  I  ' 


128  BRKAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

1  am  terrified  lest  he  loo  should  see  the  visible  change 
creeping  over  my  two  boys,  from  which  I  can  not,  can  not 
save  them,  in  a  home  like  this.  What  will  be  the  end  of 
all? 

I  wrote  that  question  last  night;  to-night  I  answer  it. 
For  the  last  time  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  under  rny  father's 
roof. 

This  is  how  it  happened. — I  wish  to  write  all  the  particu-. 
.ars  clearly,  that  I  may  at  no  future  period  have  to  meet  an 
accusing  conscience,  or  the  reproaches  of  my  brothers. — 

There  was  to-day  one  of  the  usual  domestic  storms,  in 
which,  by  Mrs.  Lyne's  contrivance,  Harry  and  Aleck  were 
punished  sorely  ;  and  this  time — though  I  know  they  are  not 
such  good  boys  as  they  once  were — punished  unjustly.  Then, 
with  her  usual  smile — she  is  always  smiling — my  step-mother 
informed  me  that  after  Christmas  they  were  both  to  be  sent 
from  home,  to  a  twenty-pound  Yorkshire  school,  with  holidays, 
as  she  delightedly  remarked,  only  once  in  two  years.  I  went 
at  once  to  my  father,  and  asked  if  it  were  so  ?  He  acknowl- 
edged it.  I  reasoned  with  him,  quietly,  earnestly,  that  in 
such  a  school  the  delicate  Aleck  would  not  live  a  year ;  and 
Henry,  with  his  fierce  temper,  would  turn  out  a  perfect 
demon.  He  laughed  at  me.  Then  I  told  him,  with  tears, 
that  I  had  promised  rny  mother  never  to  part  with  the  lads 
He  answered,  what  I  shall  not  write. 

At  last,  half-maddened,  I  cried  out,  "  that  they  should  not 
go." 

"  Miss  Lyne,"  said  he  to  me,  glancing  at  his  wife,  who 
sat  compassionately  smiling  at  my  wickedness,  "  I  give  you 
one  alternative — either  let  your  brothers  go  peaceably  to  the 
school  I  choose,  or  else  maintain  them  yourself." 

"  What  do  you  mean?" 

"  What  I  say  ;  you  are  quite  old  enough  to  earn  your  own 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  129 

bread  aad  theirs;  and  I  really  think,  with  tlu  prospect  of  a 
new  family  rising  up>  you  would  be  much  better  out  of  the 
way." 

1.  was  in  that  excited  state  of  rnind  when  nothing  appears 
strange,  startling,  or  impossible.  So,  after  a  momentary 
pause,  I  said  resolutely,  "  Very  well,  father;  we  will  go." 

He  made  no  opposition  ;  did  not  even  seem  surprised.  I 
left  the  study  almost  immediately ;  but  before  I  went,  1 
walked  up  to  him,  arid  shook  hands,  which  I  am  now  glad  of. 
There  were  no  more  words  or  disputes,  but  the  thing  was 
done. 

To-morrow  I  shall  remove  with  my  brothers  to  a  lodging, 
try  to  get  daily  pupils,  arid  begin  the  world,  with  a  good 
education,  youth,  health,  courage,  and  twenty  pounds  a  year 
Not  so  bad  ! — the  very  thought  of  toil  gives  me  strength. 
It  is  like  plunging  into  a  cold  bath,  after  being  suflbcatcd 
with  foul  vapory  steams. 

A  s.trange  thought  smote  me  just  now.  What  will  all  my 
friends  say? — what  will  one  friend  say,  when  he  comes  back 
and  finds  me — a  daily  governess  ? 

Still,  no  matter — it  must  be. 


(The  day  after  writing  this  I  arranged  all  my  plans,  telling  them 
likewise  to  my  father ;  for  I  wished  to  deal  openly  and  have  no 
quarrel,  which,  indeed,  I  always  conscientiously  had  avoided.  He  lis- 
tened hurriedly — for  there  was  a  dinner  party  awaiting-  him  down- 
stairs— wished  me  success,  gave  me  five  pounds  (which  I  quietly  left 
on  his  table),  and  bade  me  not  tell  my  humble  address  to  the  serv- 
ants. Thus  we  parted,  without  anger,  and,  God  forgive  me  !  with- 
out love. 

So,  when  the  guests  had  sat  down  to  table,  I  sent  off  our  small 
luggage,  took  my  brothers  in  each  hand,  and  went  out  of  my  fsthcr'i 
loors  through  the  ble»k  streets,  home. 

F* 


PART  II. 

WHAT  a  strange,  new  life  is  this  on  which  I  have  entered 
to  boldly  1  To-day,  after  paying  my  weekly  rent  in  advance, 
making  some  slight  needful  purchases,  and  providing,  much 
too  largely  I  fear,  for  household  expenses  and  food,  I  find  we 
have  exactly  one  sovereign  to  begin  the  world  with.  Well 
as  my  clever  Harry  remarked,  "  Benjamin  Franklin  began 
with  one  shilling ;"  so  we  are  fully  nineteen  shillings  the 
richer  than  that  great  philosopher.  Nevertheless,  I  arn  glad 
that  my  teaching  duties  commence  to-rnorrow,  and  that  my 
first  week's  salary  will  soon  be  due. 

(Looking  back  on  these  days,  it  seems  to  me  almost  a  miracle  that 
I  had  got  this  situation,  the  very  first  I  applied  for.  It  must  have  been 
Rome  charitable  soul  who  gave  me  through  pity  what  I  took  as  an 
ordinary  right,  not  knowing  how  many  a  poor  unknown,  uncreden- 
tialed  governess  waits,  hopes,  doubts,  gradually  sinks  down  lower 
and  lower,  despairs,  and  starves.) 

I  have  taken  our  lodgings  where  would  be  cheapest,  and 
furthest  away  from  our  old  neighborhood  ;  therefore  I  shall 
have  a  rather  long  walk  into  town  to  my  pupil  ;  but  exercise 
is  good  for  me.  The  boys  will  be  quiet  at  home  ;  our  old 
servant,  who  keeps  these  lodgings,  will  have  an  eye  upon 
them  ;  and  I  shall  teach  them  of  an  evening.  I  began  to  do 
it  to-night,  but  rather  unsuccessfully  ;  they  have  been  too 
much  excited  by  the  change.  So  I  took  Aleck  on  my  knee, 
while  Henry  placed  himself  on  the  other  side  the  fire,  quite 
man-like  ;  and  we  had  a  serious  talk  about  "  our  establish- 
ment." 

I  told  them  they  must  not  expect  many  things  they  had 


BREAD  l/PON  THE  WATERS.  131 

at  the  Square,  fine  dinners,  and  servants  to  wait  ;  that  they 
must  learn  to  wait  upon  themselves,  and  would  Dnly  get  a 
pudding  once  a  week. 

"  Twice,  sister,  please — twice  !"  begged  Aleck  ;  and  I 
yielded. 

Also,  I  tried  to  make  Harry  feel  how  much  depended  upon 
him  when  I  was  away,  and  how  he  could  not  be  a  foolish, 
headstrong,  passionate  boy  any  more,  but  must  strive  to  crow 
a  man  as  fast  as  possible.  He  promised,  and  to  prove  it 
insisted  on  putting  himself  and  Aleck  to  bed  without  my 
help.  Accordingly,  passing  their  door,  I  found  the  window 
slightly  open,  the  candle  flaring  in  its  socket  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  and  a  great  round  hole  burnt  in  Aleck's  socks. 
But  my  two  darlings  were  soundly  sleeping,  as  content  in 
that  shabby  bedroom  as  if  they  were  still  surrounded  by  the 
luxuries  due  to  a  rich  man's  sons.  My  tears  fell  as  I  looked 
at  them  ;  and  I  prayed  God's  help  that  I  might  bring  them 
up  rightly  and  virtuously,  as  their  mother  would  have  wish- 
ed. She,  who  knew  what  misery  often  lay  hid  under  riches, 
would  not  have  minded  their  being  poor. 


I  have  gone  through  the  first  week  of  rny  life  as  a  daily 
governess.  It  has  been  rather  harder  than  I  had  thought. 

I  found  ray  one  pupil  a  very  big  girl,  indeed  almost  a 
young  woman,  taller  than  myself,  and  with  twice  as  much 
spirit.  She  really  frightened  me,  with  her  fierce  black  eyes, 
and  her  foreign  manner,  for  she  is  half  French.  I  felt  myself 
shrinking  into  nothing  beside  her.  Yet  though  she  chattered 
French  and  German  to  an  extent  that  at  first  alarmed  me, 
on  the  score  of  my  own  acquirements,  1  find  her  lamentably 
ignorant  in  the  real  classic  knowledge  of  either  language ; 
and  as  regards  English  she  requires  the  teaching  I  would 
give  to  little  Aleck.  Nevertheless,  she  has  such  perfect  self- 
assurance,  such  a  strong  will,  sucn  a  thorough  ease  and  inde- 


132  ERE  AD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

pendencc  of  manner,  that  one  requires  the  utmost  moral  ceur 
age  to  attempt  to  teach  her  any  thing.  I  try  to  assume  all 
my  dignity,  and  the  decision  of  superior  years  and  knowledge , 
hut  yet  I  am  only  one-and-twenty,  while  she  is  near  fifteen. 
And  oh !  if  she  did  but  know  how  dreadfully  her  poor  littlo 
governess  is  at  heart  afraid  of  her  ! 

I  believed  myself  tolerably  well-educated  ;  surely  I  am,  as 
regards  classical  literature.  How  I  always  reveled  in  Dante, 
and  loved  the  only  true  French  poet,  Lamartine,  and  dived 
thirstingly  into  the  mysteries  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  :  yet  in 
common  conversation  I  find  myself  nonplussed  continually. 
It  is  such  a  different  matter  to  know  a  thing  oneself,  and  to 
impart  it  to  another.  I  ought  now  to  go  to  school  again,  if 
only  to  learn  how  to  teach. 

There  it  is  again  in  music.  Friends  call  me  a  good  musi 
cian  (at  least  some  friends  did),  and  I  know  my  love  for  it  is 
a  perfect  passion :  but  there  is  a  vast  difference  between 
singing  for  oneself,  or  for  those  whom  one  cares  to  please  far 
better  than  one's  self — and  knocking  a  poor  song  note  by 
note  into  the  ear  and  head  of  a  girl  who  has  no  more  heart 
for  it  than,  alas  !  her  poor  governess  has  for  the  teaching.  I 
had  to-day  to  play  and  sing  before  Therese's  mother  in  proof 
of  my  acquirements.  I  chose  a  song — sang  many  a  time  to 
such  pleasant  praises  !  but  in  the  singing  my  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  my  heart  sank  down  like  lead.  I  failed  deplorably  ; 
and  I  knew  it.  I  had  no  business  to  think  of  such  things 
now  I  am  a  daily  governess. 

Occasionally,  too,  I  have  stings  of  foolish  pride ;  I  had  to- 
day, when  Madame  Giraud  asked  me  abruptly,  "  if  I  wanted 
my  salary  ]"  My  cheeks  burned,  as  I  said,  "  Yes,  if  she 
pleased,"  and  took  the  gold,  so  much  needed.  I  thought — 
if  any  old  friends  could  see  me  then,  would  they  scorn  me  ? 
But  I  soon  got  over  this  wrong  feeling,  and  walking  home, 
•enjoyed  the  sweetness  o"  first  earnings. 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.          133 

Yet  at  the  week's  end  I  am  very  tired,  probably  with  the 
long  daily  walk  an  I  the  perpetual  talking.  I  am  so  glad  to 
morrow  is  Sunday  ! 

I  see  clearly,  we  must  live  somewhat  plainer  than  we  do 
It  costs  more  to  feed  three  mouths  weekly  than  I  had  expect- 
ed :  and  as  for  my  taking  the  omnibus  to  town  on  wet  days 
as  Harry  insists — wise,  thoughtful  little  man  ! — that  is  quite 
impossible  ;  but  I  need  not  vex  him  by  saying  so. 

How  changed  we  all  are  in  a  few  weeks !  how  it  seems 
like  an  age  since  we  "  began  the  world  !"  The  children  have 
become  quite  used  to  our  new  ways,  only,  poor  things  !  some- 
times they  can  not  understand  why  they  are  restricted  in 
what  were  once  ordinary  things,  but  have  now  become 
impracticable  luxuries.  Harry  wants  to  go  out  always  in  his 
best  jacket  and  French  kid  gloves ;  and  Aleck  still  looks  and 
longs  daily  for  the  pudding.  Poor  lads !  it  goes  to  my  verv 
heart  sometimes. 

I  have  not  leisure  to  write  rny  journal  often,  being  every 
night  so  glad  to  go  to  bed.  It  is  a  great  blessing  that  I  have 
such  sound,  wholesome  sleep,  which  not  only  refreshes  rne, 
but  drowns  all  care  for  a  season. 

If  I  could  only  send  those  boys  to  school,  even  to  the  com- 
mon school  they  used  to  attend,  I  would  be  so  thankful !  It 
is  not  right  for  them  to  be  left  alone  the  long,  long  day  ; 
and  at  night  I  am  so  tired,  that  I  fear  I  do  not  teach  them 
half  carefully  enough.  I  must  try  some  plan  or  other  for 
them. 

— Certainly,  it  is  a  kind  world,  with  many  good  people  in 
it,  as  I  have  proved  this  day. 

I  "  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket,"  and  went  to  Mr.  Rawl- 
inson,  my  brothers'  old  schoolmaster.  I  told  him  frankly  m} 
position,  at  least  so  far  as  I  could  without  blaming  my  father 


134          BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

I  asked  him  if  he  would  take  back  one  boy,  say  Henry,  anu 
let  me  in  requital  give  French  lessons  to  his  daughters,  or  in 
his  school. 

He  not  only  agreed,  but  said  at  my  going  away — that  two 
lads  gave  no  more  trouble  than  one,  and  he  must  have  back 
both  his  scholars  :  but  he  will  only  permit  rne  to  give  three 
Isssons  a  week,  nevertheless. 

My  mind  is  now  at  rest,  and  the  children  are  greatly 
pleased  ;  they  did  so  weary  after  their  old  playfellows,  as  \ 
plainly  saw. 

Still,  every  pleasure  has  its  pain  ;  and  mine  came  at  last. 
Seeing  a  cloud  gathering  over  Harry's  mirth,  at  last  I  got 
from  him  the  secret — he  did  not  like  going  back  to  school  in 
his  old  half- worn  blouse.  He  said  the  boys  would  tease  him. 

Oh  !  how  bitter  these  things  are  !  But  I  must  bear  them : 
it  is  not  the  children's  fault. 

After  little  Aleck  was  asleep,  I  sat  and  talked  with  Henry 
alone,  reasoning  with  him,  as  his  good  sense  and  manliness 
deserved,  more  like  a  companion  than  a  child.  I  told  him  how 
poor  we  were,  and  must  necessarily  be,  for  a  long  time  ;  that 
the  only  way  in  which  poor  people  can  remain  independent 
and  honest,  is  by  resolving  firmly  that  what  they  can  not  pay 
for  they  must  do  without — which  resolution  I  had  made,  and 
we  would  all  follow.  I  always  say  "  we,"  that  the  boys 
may  feel  we  are  all  as  one,  to  sink  or  swim  together. 

"  Now,  Harry,"  I  said,  "  I  might  go  to  some  shop  we  used 
to  frequent,  and  get  credit,  knowing  all  the  time  I  could  not 
pay.  But  would  that  be  honest  ?  would  you  feel  happy  in 
your  new  clothes?" 

"  No,  no!"  he  cried,  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  hiding  his  face 
on  rny  shoulder  ;  "  however  poor  we  are,  I  Mall  be  thus  much 
of  a  gentleman — '  One  that  does  not  owe  any  body  any  thing.' 
— You  remember  who  once  told  me  that." 

I  did  not — which  was  strange. 


BE  SAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  135 

"It  was  Mr.  Red  wood  :  arid  he  knows  what  it  is  to  be  a 
gentleman,  doesn't  he,  sister  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I  quietly,  and  said  no  more. 

Mr.  Rawlinson  mentioned  incidentally,  that  some  little 
time  after  school  began,  a  gentleman  had  called  to  inquire  it 
he  knew  any  thing  about  the  two  Master  Lynes  ?  and  being 
answered  "  No,"  had  gone  away,  leaving  no  name. 

But  I  know  who  it  was ; — whom  alone  it  could  be.  He 
has  then  come  home  from  Italy.  The  children  will  be  so 
glad! 

The  spring  is  advancing  fast ;  day  by  day,  as  I  cross  the 
Green  Park,  I  see  the  change.  It  has  been  either  sunny 
weather,  or  soft,  warm,  "growing"-  weather,  ever  since  the 
boys  went  to  school.  I  enjoy  rny  daily  walk  sj  much  ;  espe- 
cially the  three  days  a  week  that!  return  from  Mr.  Rawlin- 
son's  with  the  boys. 

Then  it  seems  so  strange  to  walk  in  our  old  neighborhood, 
and  see  the  same  shops,  and  signs,  and  turnings.  But  we 
never  go  near  the  Square. 

The  days  are  now  so  light  and  long,  that  coming  back 
through  Pall  Mall  and  Regent-street  I  always  meet  the  after- 
noon loungers.  How  gay  the  spring  bonnets  begin  to  look  ! 
I  could  be  half  ashamed  of  mine,  poor  old  thing  !  It  is  as- 
tonishing how  soon  dresses  and  bonnets  will  wear  out,  put  on 
daily,  and  in  all  weathers.  I  could  be  almost  foolish  enough 
to  sigh  with  Harry — "  I  want  new  clothes." 

However,  it  signifies  little,  rushing  through  the  streets  as  I 
do,  not  meeting  a  soul  I  know.  But,  if  I  did  meet  any  one 
— I  in  my  unr.eat  winter  wrappings,  and  a  bundle  of  books 
under  my  arm  !  If  any  one  saw  me,  spoke  to  me : — woidd 
they  speak  ?  I — that  was  a  young  lady  in  her  father's 
house,  and  am — only  a  daily  governess  ! 

One  frien;!  I  know — proud,  refined,  over-delicate  in  all  that 


136  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

regards  women — mignt  start,  to  think  how  through  this  win 
ter  I  have  run  through.  London  streets  alone,  unprotected,  in 
fair  weather  and  foul,  in  dark  or  light,  often  long  after  dusk — 
I,  that  was  never  allowed  to  cross  the  Square  liy  myself! 
He  might  think  too  that  it  was  "strange"  or  "improper,"  my 
living  alone  in  lodgings,  with  only  my  young  brothers. 

O,  wide  gulf  of  worldly  distance — opening  wider  and  widei 
before  my  eyes !  I  now  begin  to  see  into  what  I  have 
plunged.  Had  I  thought,  when  I  was  quitting  my  father's 
house  ! — But  no  ;  I  am  gfad  I  did  not  :  I  am  glad  I  thought 
of  nothing  but  my  poor  little  brothers,  who  now  live  in  peace, 
so  happy  and  so  good. 

For  me,  God  will  work  out  my  destiny  as  seemeth  Him 
best! 

I  have  determined  to  cease  going  down  the  pleasant  streets 
where  I  might  meet  friends  I  once  knew.  I  walk  along  back- 
streets  now.  Perhaps  it  is  nearest,  and  I  ought  to  save  time 
if  possible. 

My  brothers  asked  me  to-day,  if  now  that  the  long  summer 
evenings  are  coming,  1  would  take  them  up  to  Hampstead 
Heath  1  '  But  I  told  them  they  would  like  Blackheath  bet- 
ter, and  they  are  quite  satisfied,  nay,  delighted. 

How  slender  is  a  child's  memory  !  They  never  now  speak 
cfthe  Square,  of  old  times,  or  any  of  our  old  friends,  of  whom 
— as  I  begin  slowly  to  understand — we  may  possibly  never 
hear  any  more. 

Therese  is  a  very  good  girl  on  the  whole  ;  affectionate  too. 
She  takes  care  I  have  lunch  daily ;  and  this  morning,  seeing 
I  looked  pale  and  tired  with,  the  heat,  she  brought  me  a  glass 
of  wine  ;  saying,  her  mother  desires  I  should  have  the  same 
every  day — a  great  blessing  to  me  !  and  how  kind  of  her ! 
T  must  try  and  do  my  duty  by  my  pupil,  even  more  than  ] 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  137 

have  hitherto  done  :    though  Madame  Giraud  declares  she  is 
quite  satisfied. 

Waiting  for  Therese  to-day,  I  took  up  a  newspaper,  as  I  do 
occasionally,  just  to  see  the  births,  marriages,  and  deaths.  In 
the  latter,  one  struck  me  : 

"On  the  19th  ult.,  Sir  Egerlon  Redwood,  of  Redwood  Hall ;  and, 
same  day,  drowned  near  Vevay,  Egerton  Redwood,  Esq.,  his  eldest 
and  only  surviving  son.  The  baronetcy  and  influential  family  prop- 
erty fall,  therefore,  to  the  next  heir,  Godfrey  Egerton  Redwood,  Esq., 
son  of  the  late  Colonel  and  the  Honorable  Anne  Redwood,,  and  grand- 
son of  the  lately  deceased  Baronet." 

"  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  !"  How  strange  it  sounds  !  But 
he  will  make  a  noble  use  of  fortima  :  God  grant  him  happi- 
ness long  to  possess  it ! 

— I  must  still  look  a  little  longof  in  the  list  of  "  Marriages." 
To-day,  I  have  walked  more  slowly  home,  nor  minded 
passing  through  the  sunny  streets  and  gay  throngs  of  people 
in  my  sombre  and  dust-spoiled  clothing.  It  is  quite  good 
enough  for  one  who  will  probably  all  hej  life  have  to  earn 
her  bread  as  a  daily  governess. 


PART  III. 

HCNRY  aid  I  measured  heights  to-day  ;  arid  he  is  actuaihf 
Caller  than  I  am.  So,  coming  home  from  Mr.  Pvawlinson's. 
he  would  insist  upon  giving  rne  his  arm,  considering  that 
he  was  yesterday  fifteen  years  old. 

(This  is  the  next  entry  added  to  my  foolish,  girlish  journal,  preserved 
till  now,  from  the  still  more  foolish  tenderness  one  has  over  girlish 
things.  I  had  always  a  love  of  hoarding  relics,  memories,  every  thing 
but  coin.  The  long  pause  in  my  writing  was  occasioned  doubtless  by 
want  of  leisure,  during  four  years  of  a  toilsome  and  yet  monotonous 
life  ; — the  recommencement  of  my  journal  was  owing  to  want  of  occu 
pation,  during  that  trying  period  "  waiting  for  a  situation  " 

Remembering  his  birth-day,  puts  me  in  mind  that  my  own 
is  about  this  time.  Twenty-six,  or  seven,  is  it  1  I  have  al- 
most lost  count.  However,  I  must  have  been  Therese's 
governess  five  years.  This  is  why  I  shall  miss  her  so  much. 
Yet  it  is  quite  time  for  her  to  give  up  study,  and  practice 
housekeeping  for  a  few  months  before  she  is  married.  I  wish 
— as  she  laughing  said — 1  could  teach  her  that,  meaning  the 
management  of  a  house.  But  in  the  domestic  department 
my  own  abilities  are  small  ;  indeed  they  ]r  jive  completely  died 
out  for  want  of  practice.  Which  signifies  little  ;  since,  as  I 
told  Theresa  this  morning — I  shall  probably  never  have  a 
house  to  manage. 

She  looked  very  sly,  said,  laughing,  how  did  I  know  ?  and 
appealed  to  her  father ;  who  since  her  mother's  death,  two 
years  since,  has  made  her  his  constant  companion.  M.  Giraud 
took  no  notice  of  Therese's  nonsense  ;  he  is  a  perfectly  well- 
bred  man,  just,  generous,  and  kind,  so  much  so,  that  in  these 
years  I  have  all  but  forgotten  he  is  by  birth  the  great  object 
of  ray  girlish  antipathy — a  Frenchman. 


BREAD  UPON  THE  W  ATE  Co.  1*9 

He  has  been  very  kind  to  the  boys  too — my  dear  boys  !  of 
whom  I  am  so  proud.  Ah,  if  their  mother  could  but  see 
them  now  ! 

Yet  I  have  thanked  God  that  she  could  not  see,  that  no 
one  could  see,  all  we  have  passed  through ;  the  struggles,  the 
humiliations,  the  narrow,  grinding  penury  ;  and,  had  my 
health  once  failed,  the  awful  spectre  Want  standing  ever  at 
the  door.  But  I  did  not  sink  :  a  supernatural  strength  has 
borne  rne  up  through  every  thing  ;  and  He  who  gave  it  knows 
that  strength  was  not  my  own 

Now,  though  I  am  still  full  of  anxieties — terrified  when  1 
see  Aleck  look  delicate  and  weary;  or  Harry's  cheek  sharpen- 
ing out  of  boyhood  into  youth  ;  I  yet  live  in  present  peace,  and 
trust  in  Providence  for  the  time  to  come. 

Only,  if  I  could  hear  of  another  situation  before  Therese's 
marriage  !  for  I  do  not  like  taking  my  full  salary  when  I 
teach  her  nothing,  and  arn  only  as  it  were  a  friend  and  com- 
panion. But  she  and  her  father  agree  in  compelling  me  to 
this,  and  I  dare  not  refuse. 

Oh,  Need — imperious  Need — what  a  tyrant  thou  art ! 


Strange  things  have  befallen  me  to-day. 

Leaving  Therese  early,  I  thought  I  would  walk  round,  as 
I  have  done  once  or  twice,  by  a  print-shop  in  Pall  Mall,  to 
see  something  I  should  surely  see  there.  There  is  no  need  to 
make  any  secret  about  it ;  it  was  a  likeness  of  some  one  whom 
I  knew — before  the  world  knew  him,  as  it  does  now. 

Three  years  ago,  I  found  in  the  "  Times"  newspaper  Sir 
Godfrey  Redwood's  maiden  speech :  he  had  entered  Parlia- 
ment. We  were  then  rich  enough  to  afford  a  newspaper,  so  J 
often  saw  his  name  in  the  Debates.  Afterward,  when  Henry 
wanted  to  take  in  "  Chambers'  Journal"  instead,  I  managed 
to  read  the  "  Times"  at  Therese's  house. 

Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  is  a  celebrated  man  now  ;  so  cele  ' 


140          BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

brated,  that  besides  the  print  in  the  shop- window,  round 
which  I  daily  see  a  small  crowd  of  curious  gazers,  I  often 
catch,  in  the  common  talk  of  strangers,  the  old  familiar  name. 
Nobody  knows,  what  perhaps  I  have  no  right  to  tell — that 
he  was  once  a  friend  of  mine.  Nevertheless,  it  is  quite  natural 
that  I  should  feel  proud  of  this  ;  and  it  does  not  harm  him, 
or  any  one,  that  I  have  pleasure  in  seeing  his  name  in  the 
newspaper,  or  in  coming  round  now  and  then  by  that  print- 
shop,  to  look  at  his  portrait — like,  and  yet  unlike.  He  must 
have  changed  much  since  we  knew  hirn. 

To-day,  as  I  stood  at  the  shop-window — an  milady-like  act, 
it  may  be,  but  I  feel  I  am  now  too  old-looking  and  plainly 
dressed  to  mind  much  what  I  do,  provided  it  is  not  wrong — 
there  came  up  a  groom  and  a  led  horse.  Its  owner  quickly 
passed  out  of  the  shop,  and  mounted  ;  then,  just  looking  round 
with  a  half-smile,  that  swept  indifferently  over  the  shop-win- 
dow, the  little  crowd  there — and  me,  off  he  rode. 

It  was  the  glimpse  of  a  moment,  but  I  could  riot  be  mis 
taken;  I  have  to-day  seen  Godfrey — I  mean,  Sir  Godfrey 
Redwood . 

And  he  did  not  know  me  !  But  how  could  he  1  The 
years  which  have  made  of  him  a  man,  have  made  rnp — yes, 
I  am  quite  right  in  calling  myself  "  an  old  woman." 

I  turned  my  face  again  to  the  shop-window,  and  ga^cd  in 
upon  a  dazzle  of  black  and  white  engravings,  till  a  hand 
touched  me,  and  some  one  said — "Miss  Lyne  ?"  I  neod  not 
have  started  so,  ae  it  was  only  Therese's  father. 

He  said  "  he  had  been  watching  me  a  long  time  .  was  I 
then  so  very  fond  of  prints  ? — he  would  procure  me  as  many 
rare  ones  as  I  liked."  I  thanked  him,  and  was  passing  on, 
when  I  grew  quite  sick  and  weak — it  was  such  a  burning 
summer  day. 

M.  Giraud  took  ray  arm  in  his,  very  kindly  ;  and  before  1 
"well  knew  how  it  was,  I  found  myself  crossing  the  Park  wi'jj 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  141 

him,  iu  the  direction  of  my  home.  He  said,  I  bslieve,  that  ho 
wanted  to  consult  with  me  about  Therese,  or  the  future,  or 
something — I  forget  what  exact  reason  he  gave.  But  ere 
long  we  had  reached  a  quiet,  retired  walk,  and  Therese's 
father  was  talking,  riot  about  her,  but  about  himself  and  me. 

I  do  not  know  much  of  love-making ;  nor  did  he,  this 
honost,  generous-hearted,  grave  man  of  middle  age,  try  to 
"  make  love."  All  I  know  is,  that  then  and  there,  in  that 
quiet  shady  walk,  M.  Giraud  asked  me  to  be  his  wife. 

If  he  had  been  a  foolish  boy  mocking  me  with  silly,  flatter- 
ing speeches,  or  a  young  man  whose  passionate  devotion 
might  torture  me  with  the  memory  of  my  own  lost  youth,  I 
should  have  felt  it  less  :  but  this  man — asking  no  love,  only 
the  right  of  showing  tenderness ;  ready  to  be  father,  brother, 
friend,  husband — every  thing — to  poor  forlorn  me — it  went 
to  my  heart's  core  ! 

I  believe  I  wept  much  ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  gave 
no  answer  of  acceptance  or  encouragement,  which  might 
afterward  smite  my  conscience.  I  rather  think  I  said  nothing 
at  all ;  for,  hurrying  me  home,  he  left  me  ;  telling  me  he 
would  wait  for  my  decision  until  next  day. 

So  this  night  I  have  to  choose  whether  I  will  at  once  lay 
aside  all  my  burden  of  worldly  cares,  and  become  a  good 
man's  cherished  wife.  It  would  be  so,  I  feel ;  I  know  what 
he  was  to  poor  Madame  Giraud,  what  he  is  to  Therese  and 
the  younger  three.  That  he  is  somewhat  advanced  in  years, 
I  would  not  mind  ;  nor  even  that  he  is  a  Fren3hman — when 
a  Frenchman  is  a  true  man  and  a  gentleman. 

Then,  my  two  brothers,  fast  growing  up,  needing  soon  to 
be  established  in  the  world.  And  he  told  me,  among  other 
things,  that,  from  the  day  he  married  me,  he  should  look 
upon  Henry  and  Aleck  in  the  light  of  his  own  children. 
That  day,  he  wishes — and  Therese  too,  he  brought  me  her 
own  written  desire — should  be  the  same  which  removes  hie 


142  BEEAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

eldest  daughter  from  his  home.  Only  six  weeks  hence  ; — 
one  brief  six  weeks  ! — and  I  might  be  no  longer  a  poor  gov- 
erness, but  an  honored  wife  ! 

I  feel  almost  bewildered.  Such  a  change  !  not  for  me 
only,  but  for  my  dear  boys.  Surely  I  ought  to  forget  every 
thing  except  them — to  crush  out  the  old  life,  to  tread  old  feel- 
ings into  dust,  and  so  walk  on  that  silent  pathway — it  is  only 
dust,  now — quite  cairn  and  smiling,  up  to  the  very  church- 
door.  But  there — in  the  presence  of  God,  before  whom,  as 
well  as  before  my  husband,  I  must  take  the  rnarriage-vow — 
Dare  I  ? 

I  have  lifted  down  a  Prayer  Book — my  mother's — and 
read  the  whole  marriage-service  through. 

"  I  require  and  charge  you  both  (as  ye  ivill  answer  at  ike 
dreadful  day  of  judgment,  ichen  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall 
be  disclosed)  that  if  either  of  you  knoiv  any  impediment — " 

"  Wilt  thou  .  .  .forsaking  all  other,  keep  thce  only  unto 
him—" 

I  closed  the  book. 

It  is  impossible  !  Poor  I  have  been,  very  poor — ay,  and 
very  miserable  ;  but  I  have  ever  borne  a  clear  conscience 
before  God  and  man.  So  it  shall  still  be.  I  will  not  per- 
jure myself  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  :  nor  enter  the  married 
state  with  a  lie  upon  my  soul. 

I  have  written  to-night  to  M.  Giraud,  telling  him  that  cir- 
cumstances-have made  me  fixedly  resolve  not  to  marry,  but 
to  devote  myself  entirely  to  the  care  of  my  two  brothers.  He 
is  of  too  generous  a  nature,  and  knows  too  well  my  firmness 
of  purpose  in  all  things,  to  attempt  to  change  my  resolution. 

One  sentence  I  have  on  mature  consideration  added  to  my 
letter — that,  should  sickness  or  premature  death  prevent  my 
fulfilling  my  duty  toward  my  boys,  I  trust  to  him — the  only 
man  who  ever  really  loved  me — to  take  care  of  Henry  im! 
until  they  grow  to  be  rren. 


BREAD    UPON  THE  WATERS.  143 

Now,  as  it  is  long  past  midnight,  I  shall  lay  me  down,  arid 
try  to  sleep.  Ah  !  how  quietly  those  sleep,  who,  as  said  the 
poor  dying  poet,  whose  poetry  we  used  to  read  when  I  was 
young,  "  feel  the  daisies  growing  over  them  !"'  God  forgive 
mo  ! — me,  that  have  two  young  souls  of  His  giving  to  rear 
up  for  His  eternity  ! — I  must  not  yet  think  of  the  "  daisies." 

It  has  all  ended  as  I  hoped  ;  and  even  my  dear  Therese 
has  forgiven  me.  I  trust,  ere  long,  her  excellent  father  may 
find  a  worthy  companion  for  himself  and  a  good  mother  for 
his  little  children  :  then  rny  mind  will  be  quite  at  rest. 

Though  I  have  seen  him  no  more,  he  has  managed, 
through  Therese's  husband,  to  find  me  some  most  acceptable 
pupils  ;  and  he  has  never  ceased  his  kindness  to  my  boys. 

My  dear  mother  used  to  say,  when  sometimes  we  talked, 
half  jesting,  of  the  wooers  that  were  to  come  to  me,  "  that  it 
was  usually  a  woman's  own  fault,  if  in  rejecting  a  lover  she 
also  lost  a  friend."  I  have  proved  deeply  and  thankfully  the 
truth  of  that  saying. 


(Two  years  intervened  here — two  long,  slow,  silent  years.  Of 
these  no  records  remain,  because — I  burnt  them.  It  was  a  great 
deal  the  best.  Every  one  who  can  weed  his  life,  or  his  life's  outward 
evidences,  of  all  gloomy,  erring,  or  hurtful  memorials,  is  as  much 
bound  to  do  it,  as  he  is  bound  to  root  out  from  his  garden  all  things 
that  might  prove  painful  or  injurious  to  those  that  come  after  him. 

We  should  always  remember,  that  in  the  saddest  human  life  all  sad- 
ness necessarily  ends  when  the  tomb  closes  ;  often,  with  God's  bless- 
ing, long  before  them.  And  none  of  us,  quitting  the  world,  shoul^ 
leave  behind  us  the  thorns  that  have  mercifully  dropped  off  from  our 
own  brows,  to  cumber  and  fester  young  feet. 

I  am  now,  in  my  old  age,  a  firm  advocate  for  that  blessed  sunshine 
of  existence — a  cheerful  spirit — which  I  believe  to  be,  no  less  than  a 
meek  and  quiet  one,  "in  the  sight  of  God  of  great  price.") 


Harry  is.  1  do  believe,  and  every  body  says  so,  the  hand- 
somest lad  imaginable.      I  did  so  wish  him  to  grow  six  feel 


141  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

high  ;  which  desire  seems  very  likely  to  be  accomplished 
He  is  strong,  too  ;  especially  since  last  summer,  when  we 
were  rich  enough  to  go  down  to  the  sea.  What  a  merry 
time  we  had  !  and  how  Aleck,  quiet  and  gentle  as  he  is,  be- 
came quite  boisterous,  and  wanted  to  turn  sailor.  But  the 
gait-water  mania  has  died  away  in  these  two  months  ;  for 
which  somebody  I  know  is  very  thankful.  Any  thing  but 
red-coats  and  blue-jackets — as  I  tell  the  boys  when  they  talk 
of  what  they  will  be. 

What,  alas  !  Heaven  only  knows,  for  I  do  not.  I  can  only 
find  them  bread  from  year  to  year.  As  to  putting  them  to 
any  profession,  that  is  utterly  impossible  ;  and  somehow  with 
a  feeling  that  may  be  wrong  but  yet  is  natural,  I  shrink 
from  seeing  Henry  or  Alexander  Lyne,  sprung  from  the  old 
Lynes  and  Trevethlans  of  Cornwall,  standing  behind  a  coun- 
ter, or  running  about  as  a  lawyer's  clerk. 

Still,  the  trial  is  not  quite  at  hand.  Harry's  education  is 
not  finished  yet ;  and  I  will  trust  to  that  good  Providence; 
which  has  hitherto  enabled  me  to  earn  for  them  not  merely 
necessaries  but  many  comforts,  still  to  make  rny  way  plain 
before  me. 

I  think  Harry  will  turn  out  a  wonderfully  clever  youth, 
and  that  I  did  right,  when  good  Mr.  Rawlinson  died,  in  strain- 
ing every  nerve  that  the  lad  should  go  to  King's  College 
School  for  a  year.  He  will  be  seventeen  next  October,  and 
then — Well,  until  then  I  will  wait  calmly  :  "  Sufficient  unto 
the  day  is"  not  only  "  the  evil,"  but  the  anxious  burden 
"thereof."  We  never  know  what  lightening  the  morrow 
may  bring. 

— I  wrote  yesterday  this  last  line.  There  must  have  been 
a  good  angel  standing  by,  and  smiling  while  I  wrote.  Ah, 
no  !  our  "  good  angel"  wore  a  human  likeness— <-a  likeness 
we  all  knew!  I  write  this  with  tears  of  joy,  not  so  muchfoi 


I3IIEAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  143 

having  found  again  an  old  friend,  but  for  having  also  found, 
what  amidst  all  doubt  I  never  wholly  lost,  my  faith  in  the 
i-leal  of  my  youth. 

If  from  this  moment  I  were  never  to  set  eyes  on  the  "  good 
angel"  I  spoke  of;  or  if,  harder  still,  eyes  whose  kindness  I 
value  were  henceforth  to  rest  on  me  in  utter  strangeness,  for- 
getfulness,  or  dislike  ; — I  still  should  feel  the  happiness  which  I 
feel  now.  A  happiness  which  being  wholly  without  reference 
^o  myself,  is  as  pure  as  that  of  some  forced  inconoclast,  who, 
wakening  from  a  miserable  dream,  sees  the  broken  idol  sitting 
anshattered  and  godlike  fair,  nay,  sees  the  imaged  marble 
changed  into  the  visible  Divinity.  What  matters  it  into 
what  dim  corner  of  the  great  world-temple  one  creeps,  so 
that  one  knows  the  glorious  presence  is  still  abiding  there  ! 

— This  is  certainly  a  little  piece  of  insanity,  worthy  of  the 
Felicia  Lyne  of  old :  but  it  is  only  temporary  ;  I  shall  be 
"  Miss  Lyne  the  governess,"  to-morrow. 

After  a  day  or  two,  1  have  leisure  and  quietness  to  write 
down  the  circumstance  which  has  made  such  a  change  in  the 
boys'  future,  and  consequently  in  mine. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  prize  distribution  at  King's  College  , 
and  Henry  had  taken  his  younger  brother  with  him  "  to  see 
the  fun,"  as  he  boldly  called  it — poor  Harry  !  though  I  no 
ticed  how  pale  he  was  all  breakfast  time — aware  that  his 
own  fate  hung  upon  the  balance.  Since,  till  their  names  are 
called  out,  none  of  the  boys  know  who  are  the  winners  of 
prizes. 

I  could  not  go,  for  pleasure  must  always  yield  to  duty,  in 
rny  profession  ;  and  I  had  two  music  lessons  to  give  that  af 
ternoon.  Returning  home  I  found  to  my  surprise  that  the 
lads  were  not  come  in  ;  I  should  have  been  foolishly  restless, 
only  I  knew  Aleck's  good  sense,  and  how,  had  any  disappoint- 
ment befallen  his  brother,  no  one  could  calm  him  better  than 

G 


146  BUEAU  UP3N  THE  WATERS 

Aleck  could  So  I  employed  myself  in  seeing  that  dinner  was 
all  ready,  and  in  making  the  room  neat — a  weary  business 
where  there  are  two  growing  boys.  And  I  am  getting  such 
a  fidgety,  particular  old  maid — as  Harry  often  tells  me ; 
though  he  always  kisses  me  afterward,  lest  I  should  be  vexed. 

— How  long  I  am  in  corning  to  my  story  ! 

It  was  six  in  the  evening,  and  I  was  growing  thoroughly 
wretched  and  frightened,  when  I  heard  a  knock,  and  a  foot 
that  could  be  none  but  Harry's,  leaping  up-stairs  (we  live  on 
the  drawing-room  floor  now).  In  a  rniuute,  the  lad  burst  in, 
all  delight,  and  Aleck  after  him. 

"  Oh  !  sister,  sister,  only  guess  !"  they  both  cried. 

"  No  !  don't  let  her  guess,"  said  a  third  voice  ;  and  then  1 
saw  that  a  gentleman  was  with  my  boys.  One — than  whom 
I  would  sooner  have  expected  to  see  an  angel  of  heaven 
standing  in  our  room  ! 

"  I  should  have  known  your  face  any  where,  Miss  Lyne, 
though  I  fear  you  have  forgotten  mine." — He  was  mistaken 
in  both  these  things  :  but  it  did  not  signify. 

Very  soon  we  had  shaken  hands  cordially,  and  partly  from 
Harry,  partly  from  Aleck,  I  began  to  hear  how  my  brothers 
had  met  with  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood. 

He,  now  a  man  of  consideration,  had  been  invited  to  the 
distribution ;  there  in  the  College  Hall,  he  had  heard  called 
out  the  name  of  Henry  Trevethlan  Lyne  ;  and  seeing  my  boy 
walk  up  to  receive  his  well-earned  prize,  had  made  sure  it 
was  his  old  favorite.  Afterward  he  had  spoken  to  the  lads,  and 
they  had  told  him  our  whole  story.  It  was  very  different 
from  the  one  my  step-mother  had  given  him  concerning  us. 
some  eight  years  ago.  No  wonder  he  had  suffered  us  gradu- 
ally to  drop  out  of  his  memory,  unworthy  a  good  man's 
thought. 

He  dined  with  us  that  day,  though  the  proud  boys  were 
rather  shocked  that  he  should  see  our  humble  board.  And 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.         147 

Ail  that  evening,  with  the  June  sun  slanting  in  upon  his  lace 
— in  which  the  former  boyish  likeness  gleamed  strangely  at 
times,  though  he  is  much  changed  by  the  thick  mustache  and 
beard  lie  wears,  foreign  fashion — Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  sat 
talking,  sorle  times  gayly,  sometimes  thoughtfully,  with  "Miss 
Lyne  the  governess,"  and  her  brothers. 

I  saw  in  the  first  ten  minutes,  that  despite  his  kind  courtes^ 
about  knowing  my  face,  he,  too,  was  struck  by  the  change 
which  I  so  clearly  perceive  in  myself;  and  that  if  the  old 
"  Felicia"  had  not  been  long  swept  out  from  what  could  have 
been  at  best  a  mere  boyish  memory,  the  sight  of  "  Miss  Lyne" 
had  now  made  it,  and  all  belonging  to  it,  irrevocably  the 
past.  It  was  well  for  me  that  I  had  discernment  and  strength 
of  mind  enough  at  once  to  assure  myself  of  this,  so  that  our 
future  intercourse  may  be,  as  indeed  it  is,  perfectly  free  and 
unembarrassed  on  either  side. 

Sir  Godfrey  told  us  much  of  what  had  happened  to  himself 
since  the  days  when  he  used  to  visit  at  the  Square.  It  was  the 
ordinary  life  of  a  young  man  of  fortune,  filled  up  with  many 
extravagances  and  follies,  all  of  which  he  owned  so  freely,  that 
one  could  plainly  discern — even  if  his  whole  countenance, 
bearing,  and  the  accidental  nothings  by  which  we  iudge  of 
character,  had  not  confirmed  the  fact — that  there  had  freen  in 
him  no  vice  ;  that  the  son  of  his  proud  and  virtuous  mother 
was,  as  I  had  long  learnt  from  other  sources,  the  stay  and 
glory  of  the  Redwood  house. 

His  "  wild  oats,"  he  said,  had  been  sown  early,  abroad  and 
at  home,  and  he  was  now  in  the  midst  of  manhood's  grave 
and  earnest  career — the  career  of  one  who  deeply  felt,  that  as 
regarded  talents,  influence,  and  the  power  of  doing  good,  to 
him  much  had  been  given,  and  of  him  much  would  surely 
be  required. 

Harry  asked  him  if  he  had  been  married  ?  to  which  ho 
laughingly  answered,  "  No,  nor  engaged  either,  though  he  had 


148         BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

been  in.  love  and  out  of  love  at  least  a  dozen  times,  as  Maslrz 
Harry  would  himself  ere  long." 

Then,  turning  to  me,  he  changed  his  tone  to  seriousness, 
and  spoke  of  all  the  cares  he  had  had  with  his  younger 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  what  a  happy  arid  nohle  mistress  his 
mother  made  at  Redwood  Hall.  "  It  would  be  long  ere  1 
should  find  a  Lady  Redwood  like  her,"  added  he  smiling  ; 
and  then  the  conversation  died. 

But  now  comes  that  act  of  generosity,  which  I  find  my 
brother  Henry  and  he  had  settled  entirely  between  them- 
selves before  ever  the  matter  was  confided  to  me,  though  of 
course  my  nominal  consent  was  to  be  asked  as  a  seal  to  the 
bond. 

Sir  Godfrey  is  about  to  proceed  abroad  as  charge  d'affaires 
at .  He  wishes  to  take  with  him  Henry,  who  at  seven- 
teen— nay  sixteen,  for  it  wants  three  months  to  his  birth- 
day— is  as  manly-looking  and  manly-minded  as  many  a 
youth  of  twenty.  He  said  the  boy  should  be  his  secretary,  or 
attache — some  nominal  office,  through  which  I  see  clearly 
his  generous  purpose  of  taking  all  care  for  Harry's  future  en- 
tirely upon  himself. 

And  Harry  must  go.  It  would  break  the  lad's  heart  did 
I  refuse.  I  have  no  right  to  let  any  foolish  scruple  stand  in 
the  light  of  this,  the  sole  chance  that  may  ever  offer  of  my 
darling  brother's  earning  his  bread  and  making  his  way  in 
the  world  in  the  sole  manner  that  his  proud  nature  would 
ever  thoroughly  bend  to — as  a  gentleman.  Besides,  as  Sir 
Godfrey  reminded  me,  this  change  in  fortune  only  replaces 
Harry  in  the  sphere  where  he  was  born  ;  since  '—like  water, 
the  pure  blood  of  the  Trevethlans  and  the  Lynes  will  always 
ind  its  own  level. 

When  he  said  so,  I  smiled,  and  in  my  tun  reminded  him 
that  I  was  still  "  the  governess." 

"  Well  !"  he  answorcd,  "  and  what  is  more  honorable  than 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  U: 

a  governess,  when  she  is  a  lady  by  birth,  or  at  least  by  edu- 
cation, as  all  governesses  ought  to  be  ?  What  more  noble 
than  a  woman  who  devotes  her  whole  life  to  the  sowing  of 
good  seed,  the  fruitage  of  which  she  may  never  see  1  If  I 
have  a  wife  and  children,"  here  his  eyes  smiled  with  somo 
dim,  dawning  thought,  "  I  will  teach  them,  that  after  father 
and  mother  there  is  no  one  on  earth  to  whom  they  owe  such 
reverence  as  to  her  on  whom  depends  the  formation  not  only 
of  their  intellect,  but  of  their  whole  mind  and  character.  But, 
accordingly,  I  will  take  care  that  this  model  governess  is 
worthy  of  the  trust — a  true  lady,  and  more,  a  true  woman — 
in  fact,  just  such  a  woman  as  you  are  yourself,  Miss  Lyne." 

I  had  no  answer  to  that.     I — his  children's  governess  ! 

Still,  it  gives  me  comfort  to  think  he  should  so  honor  the 
sisterhood  to  which  I  belong — unto  which  I  had  joined  my- 
self in  humiliated  despair,  until  at  last  I  began  to  wear  my 
heavy  chains  as  the  badge  of  a  worthy  service,  and  to  dis- 
cover that  every  governess  has  it  in  her  power  to  make  her 
self,  and  with  herself  all  her  fraternity,  reverenced  and  honor 
able  in  the  sight  of  the  world. 

Henry  is  gone  away — Henry,  my  noble,  handsome  boy  ' 
my  right  hand  and  stronghold  in  the  bitter  days  of  adversity, 
which  hardly  seemed  adversity  when  borne  for  him  !  But. 
please  God  !  there  is  only  prosperity  in  store  for  him  now. 
Also,  for  me  and  little  Aleck,  still  little,  gentle,  and  pale. 
But  Aleck  shall  go  to  college,  if  he  likes,  nevertheless  ;  for 
he  too  must  be  well  educated,  as  is  his  brother.  My  mother's 
sons  shall  not  be  inferior  in  any  way  to  the  children  who,  I 
hear,  cluster  round  my  father's  hearth,  and  will  inherit  his 
property.  Well !  we  envy  them  not.  May  they  prove  a 
comfort  to  his  old  age  ! 

To-night  Aleck  and  I  have  sat  for  the  last  time  in  our  old 
lodgings,  from  which  we  are  now  removing  nearer  town  I 


150  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

can  not  walk  so  well  as  I  used  to  do,  arid  we  need  bettei 
rooms,  since  the  situation  I  have  now  obtained  through  Sir 
Godfrey  Redwood,  and  which  I  have  promised  him  to  hold 
until  he  arid  Harry  return  home,  is  one  of  a  higher  class  and 
higher  salary  than  any  I  have  hitherto  had.  Think  of  my 
teaching  a*  little  Lady  Anne  ! 

She  is  the  youngest  daughter  of  a  poor  earl — I  see  he  is 
poor  for  an  earl  ;  but  he  lives  in  honest  retirement,  keeping 
within  his  means  ;  which  is  doubtless  the  reason  why  Sir 
Godfrey  honors  him  so  much.  I  honor  him  too,  and  his  three 
fair  daughters,  as  cordially  as  if  they  had  not  "  a  handle"  to 
their  pretty  Christian  names. 

A  quiet  yet  somewhat  dull  tea  we  had,  Aleck  and  I ;  and 
then  we  sat  in  the  twilight,  talking,  and  watching  the  shadows 
in  the  room,  which  now  seems  mean,  yet  once  appeared  to  us 
magnificent,  compared  to  the  former  back-parlor.  The  poor 
old  room,  which  has  seen  so  much !  We  almost  grew  sad  to 
think  we  should  no  more  watch  the  street-lamp's  glimmer 
creeping  in  along  the  wall,  so  pleasant  and  dim — besides  often 
saving  us  an  hour  or  two  of  candle-light,  in  times  when  every 
small  saving  was  of  pathetic  value.  Ah  !  the  poor  old  room  ! 

Soon  we  broke  off  talking  of  the  past  to  speculate  on  the 
dawning  future,  and  to  wonder  whether  it  would  be  two 
years,  three,  or  four  ere  Harry  came  back  !  arid  if  so,  what  a 
man  he  would  be  ! — Especially  when  in  the  constant  society 
of  such  a  perfect  gentleman  as  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood.  Aleck 
quite  envied  him  that  ;  for  Aleck,  with  all  his  quietness,  has 
an  exquisite  taste  for  the  refinements  of  life.  Nay,  coming 
one  day  to  fetch  me  home,  he  has  quite  fallen  in  love  with  my 
little  Lady  Anne,  and  I  hear  of  nothing  else  from  morning  till 
night.  The  foolish  boy  !  Sixteen  and  five  feet  four  to  adore 
eleven  and  four  feet  nothing  !  But  Aleck  is  a  young  poet, 
and  so,  as  I  tell  him,  must  fain  begin  the  usual  destiny  of 
poets — to  be  alivays  in.  love  !  „ 


B&EAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  151 

Love  ! — Have  I,  even  I,  begun  lightly  to  use  that  solemn 
word  1 

Aleck  is  at  last  gone  to  bed,  and  I  have  taken  away  his 
candle,  lest  he  should  set  the  house  on  fire  through  reading 
novels,  which  would  be  a  pretty  climax  to  our  long  abiding 
here. 

I  go  up  to  my  own  room,  and  in  its  solitary  silence  think 
of  many  things,  chiefly  of  the  steamer  which,  under  this  same 
midnight  moon,  is  floating  down  the  broad  Thames,  and  bear- 
ing with  it  my  best  treasures  in  this  world — bearing  them  to 
a  future,  in  which  as  regards  neither,  shall  I  have  in  time  to 
come  any  share  or  claim.  Both  will  ere  long  have  taken  to 
their  hearts  much  nearer  ties.  To-night  Aleck  made  me 
laugh,  by  prophesying  that  it  would  not  be  very  many  years 
before  I  dandled  on  my  knees  Harry's  children  : — and  Sii 
Godfrey  Redwood  gayly  promised  I  should  be  governess  to  his ! 
All  these  jests  will  one  day  come  true  ;  and  then  I — this  one 
solitary  I — 

No  matter  ! — May'st  Thou,  O  God,  receive  the  life-sacri- 
fice on  which,  year  by  year,  I  have  thrown  all  that  was  love- 
ly and  precious  in  my  eyes,  and  so  make  the  offering — worth- 
less of  itself — sweet  and  acceptable  in  Thine  ! 


PART  IV. 

That  boy  Aleck  !  that  foolish,  comical,  impressible  fel- 
LOW  ! — 

(This  must  have  been  written  two  years  or  more  after  the  time 
when  Harry  went  away,  and  I  began  to  teach  the  Ladies  Airlie.  I 
say  "the  Ladies  Airlie,"  because,  in  addition  to  my  own  pupil,  I 
used  occasionally  to  give  music-lessons  to  Lady  Dorothy  and  Lady 
Maud.  In  fact,  I  was  very  much  with  them  all ;  more  like  a  friend 
than  a  governess.  Those  two  years  were  a  bright  portion  of  my  life  : 
I  was  very  happy  {for  me)  ;  so  happy,  that  I  scarcely  ever  touched 
my  journal.) — 

That  boy  Aleck  will  certainly  go  crazy  after  his  little  god- 
dess !  He  has  had  three  other  child-sweethearts  in  eighteen 
months,  and  now  he  has  come  back  to  "my  bonnie  Ladie 
Ann."  I  can  now  hear  him  singing  to  himself  that  same  bal- 
lad of  Allan  Cunningham's,  fragments  of  which  he  indulges 
me  at  breakfast  and  tea,  somthing  about 

"  The  cherry  lip,  the  creamy  loof, 
Or  the  waist  o'  Lady  Ann," 

generally  going  through  the  whole  poem,  until  he  gets  to 

"  I  am  her  father's  gardener  lad;" 

at  which  he  pauses,  and  looks  as  proud  as  if  the  ghosts  of  all 
the  ancient  Lynes  and  Trevethlans  were  peering  out  from 
the  eyes  of  their  young  descendant.  My  patience  alive  !  (a 
harmless  expletive  that,  though  it  seems  ridiculous  enough 
when  written),  what  is  to  be  done  with  the  boy  1 

He  wants  sadly  a  little  reality — some  active,  busy,  earnest 
life,  such  as  is  led  by  his  brother.  How  happy  Harry  seems! 
and  how  beautiful  his  letters  are  !  gradually  toning  down  into 
manliness.  I  think  on  the  whole,  that  though  not  so  much 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.          153 

of  a  dreamer,  he  will  turn  out  a  finer  character  than  Aleck. 
But  then  Aleck  is  always  with  me,  and  one's  heart  clings  so 
closely  to  those  that  are  away.  "  One's  heart  clings  so  closely 
to  those  that  are  away  !" — How  much  truth  there  is  in  thesp 
words ! 

It  was  my  birthday  yesterday  ;  a  fact  which  little  Lady 
Anne  coaxed  out  of  me,  seeing  I  looked  rather  grave.  She 
also  won  from  me  another  secret,  which,  indeed,  I  had  nc 
reason  or  design  to  keep — that  I  was  thirty-one  years  old. 

Thirty-one  years  old  ! — It  is  time  I  put  up  my  "  pretty,  pretty 
curls,"  which,  through  a  foolish  fancy,  I  have  carefully  kept 
all  these  years.  Nobody  would  ever  be  so  blind  as  to  call 
them  "  pretty"  now ;  and  whatsoever  I  did  with  them,  no- 
body would  notice  the  change.  So,  to-rnorrow.  I  will  begin 
wearing  my  hair  quite  plain,  which  is  indeed  much  more 
suitable  to  any  one  who  is  no  longer  a  girl. 

Lady  Dorothy  and  Lady  Maud  both  gave  me  birthday 
presents — quick,  warm-hearted,  impulsive  gifts.  Moreover 
which  was  better  than  the  gift,  Lady  Maud  kissed  me,  bend 
ing  over  me  with  her  silent,  tall,  graceful,  white-lily-like  air. 
I  greatly  admire  Lady  Maud.  But  merry,  frank-spoken  Lady 
Dorothy  thought  it  a  very  dreadful  thing  to  be  thirty-one 
years  old,  especially  when  one  was  riot  married,  and  appar- 
ently did  not  intend  to  be  ;  which,  she  politely  observed,  was 
certainly  Miss  Lyne's  own  fault,  and  a  very  disgraceful  de- 
termination, too  ! 

I  laughed,  and  Lady  Maud,  whose  words,  though  rare,  are 
always  as  fragrant  as  the  perfume  that  comes  out  of  a  white- 
lily-cup — there  my  fantastic  simile  holds  good  ! — Lady  Maud 
said, "  It  mattered  little  :  whether  old  or  young,  married  01 
unmarried,  a  woman  like  Miss  Lyne  was  sure  to  be  happy." 

Happy  ! — Alone,  in  my  own  home,  I  sit  and  ponder  ovei 
that  word 


154         BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

I  go  out  into  the  world,  and  see  other  homes  full  oi  selfish- 
nets,  misery,  and  strife  : — mine  is  all  peace ;  there  is  nevci 
in  it  a  shadow  of  disquiet  or  contention.  Except,  to  be  sure, 
when  Aleck  persists  in  sitting  up  writing  poetry  till  two  in 
the  morning. 

I  see  around  me  restlessness,  ennui,  young  lives  wasted  in 
doing  nothing — until  out  of  the  dull  void  of  an  aimless  exist- 
ence gradually  forms  a  chaos,  seething  continually  with  all  its 
elements  of  passion  and  of  pain,  from  which  nothing  hut  the 
touch  of  a  Divine  hand  will  ever  evolve  a  perfect  orb.  Now, 
my  life — steadily  rolling  on,  with  rarely  a  moment  left  for 
weariness  or  regret,  every  day  bringing  its  duties,  and  every 
night  closing  them  in  rest — would  I  change  ? — No. 

Young  people  come  to  me  with  their  troubles,  especially 
^ove-troubles  ;  poor  frenzied  strugglers  through  the  seas  which 
all  must  cross;  dashed  from  rock  to  rock,  of  fate,  or  folly,  or 
wrong,  each  one  thinking  there  is  in  the  whole  world  no  other 
sufferer,  at  least  no  greater  sufferer,  than  he.  I  sit  and  listen 
so  quietly,  am  sorry  for  all,  and  try  to  help  all ;  while  my 
outward  smile  creeps  peacefully  into  my  own  inward  heart, 
with  a  consciousness  that  there  are  some  portions  of  the  solemn 
life-journey  which  no  one  ever  has  to  pass  through  tiuice. 

Yes,  I  think  Lady  Maud's  chance  saying  was  true  ;  I  be- 
lieve I  am  truly  "  happy." 

Was  there  not  an  ancient  sage  who  said,  "  No  man  can  be 
pronounced  truly  happy. until  he  dies?" 


— Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  who  could  have  told  ]  Sc 
unexpected,  too  !  But,  as  Aleck  was  saying  only  that  very 
day,  every  thing  in  the  fortunes  of  our  family  seems  to  happen 
suddenly.  We  two  were  sitting  at  tea,  on  Good  Friday,  of 
all  days  in  the  year  :  I  thinking  what  I  should  do  during  L 
week  if  entire  holiday,  and  Aleck  rather  glum,  because 
though  Lady  Dorothy  had  called  him  "  her  poet-laureate"— 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  155 

Lady  Maud  had  said,  in  her  gracious  and  gentle  way,  what 
good  a  little  country  air  would  do  to  a  delicate  boy — and  little 
Lady  Anne  had  openly  declared  she  would  ask  her  godmother, 
Mrs.  Redwood,  to  invite  him  with  them  to  Dorsetshire  ; — 
still  Easter  was  come,  and  they  had  all  gone  down,  save,  alas  ! 
poor  Aleck,  to  Redwood  Hall. 

I  had  told  the  boy  it  was  a  foolish  dream,  and  that,  despite 
'  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards,"  i.  e.  the  Trevethlans,  and 
\\\  the  gentle  humility  of  the  impoverished,  noble  household, 
there  was  a  great  difference  between  them  and  us;  that  he 
was  still  but  a  college-student,  and  brother  of  "  the  govern- 
ess." But  at  eighteen  one  does  build  such  airy  palaces  ! 
"  Every  man  his  own  Aladdin,"  as  I  said  merrily.  "  Youths 
running  about  barefoot  and  contented,  each  with  the  lamp  in 
his  bosom." 

Aleck  laughed,  declaring  I  was  growing  quite  poetical  ;  so, 
just  for  fun,  and  to  pass  time  away,  we  began  speculating 
what  we  each  would  do,  had  we  the  lamp  or  the  ring. 

My  foolish  boy  quickly  built  in  imagination  a  palace,  very 
Aladdinish,  on  the  banks  of  Windermere  (whither  I  had  man- 
aged to  send  him  after  his  illness  last  autumn) ;  and  was  just 
creating  a  princess  to  put  into  it,  which  princess  strongly  re- 
sembled a  full-grown  Lady  Anne — when  he  recollected  I  had 
riot  had  my  turn. 

He  said,  "  Now,  sister,  what  would  you  wish  for  ?" 

I  was  silent  a  moment,  remembering  the  days  when  I  used 
to  wish  "  at  the  moon  ;"  but  I  am  not  so  simple  now.  So  I  be- 
gan to  build  my  Aladdin-palace  of  real  stones — possibilities. 

"  Then,  Aleck,  I  think  if  we  were  sitting  just  as  we  are 
— I  am  sure  we  are  very  comfortable — and  if,  instead  ol 
Henry's  next  letter,  which  ought  to  come  this  week,  there 
were  to  come — " 

"Henry?" 

1  smiled,  and  was  going  on,  when-  -I  can  only  state,  not 


56  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

explain,  the  odd  coincidence — there  was  a  loud,  sudden  knocfe 
at  the  street-door.  Following  the  knock,  came  the  old  quick- 
bounding  footstep — three  stairs  at  a  time — and  Harry  was  in 
the  room  ! 

Ay,  my  own  Harry,  rny  real  Harry  !  though  he  was  six 
ieet  high,  with  a  deep,  firm  voice,  and  an  awful  mustache  and 
beard  ; — though  he  lifted  his  little  old  sister  right  up  into  his 
arms,  frightening  her  almost  out  of  her  seven  senses,  and  by 
his  foreign  and  stylish  appearance  so  awed  Aleck  that  for  the 
first  minute  or  two,  the  lad  hardly  ventured  to  speak  to  his 
brother — still — he  was  our  own  Harry  ! 

I  had,  I  thank  God  !  such  entire  joy  in  seeing  him,  such 
perfect  home-delight,  that  I  never  once  thought  whether 
Harry  had  come  here  alone. 

He  had  done  so.  as  he  very  soon  told  us  ;  Sir  Godfrey 
having  gone  down  at  once  to  Redwood  Hall. 

We  had  tea  a  second  time  for  our  Harry — the  old  pleasant 
tea-making,  which  he  seemed  to  enjoy  so  much,  and  remember 
so  tenderly.  He  even  reminded  me  of  the  winter  nights  when 
I  used  to  stretch  over  between  him  and  Aleck,  lying  like  lazy 
puppies  on  the  hearth,  and  make  the  toast  by  the  parlor-fire. 
My  dear  Harry  ! — 

He  has  grown  up  a  perfect  gentleman  :  how  could  he  else, 
under  the  influence  of  such  a  friend  ?  Better  than  all,  my  boy 
has  kept  his  own  pure  heart,  only  guided  into  experience  by 
one  that  is  not  only  pure  but  wise. 

In  every  way  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  has  fulfilled  his  trust, 
and  Henry's  attachment  to  him  knows  no  bounds.  That  my 
brother,  my  darling  brother,  should  owe  every  thing  to  the 
man  whom  I  always  held  to  be  the  best  man  on  earth — is  not 
this  happiness  ]  A  happiness,  that  perhaps  is  better,  deeper> 
truer,  than  what  I  might  have  deemed  such,  once ! 

Harry  says  that  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  is  very  well  in 
health,  and  full  of  joy  at  coming  home.  He  sent  likewise  a 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  157 

kind  message  to  Harry's  sister,  saying  I  should  hear  fri/m  him 


soon. 


I  have  heard  we  are  all  to  go  down  on  a  three  days'  visit 
to  Redwood  Hall.  I  would  fain  have  declined,  being,  as  I 
told  the  boys,  half-frightened  at  the  Honorable  Anne  Red- 
\vood,  whom  I  have  never  seen  since  the  days  when  I  visited 
her  as  a  "young  lady  at  home."  She  might  be  proud  toward 
Mi&s  Lyrie  the  governess.  But  rny  two  brothers,  who  seem 
to  have  fairly  taken  rule  over  me,  will  hear  no  excuse. 

Besides,  Henry  longs  for  the  Dorsetshire  shooting,  and,  as 
he  told  me  privately,  desires  to  hear  more  of  a  plan  which 
Sir  Godfrey  has  all  but  settled  for  his  future  career,  in  which 
he.  Henry  Trevethlan  Lyne,  is  to  bring  great  honor  back  to 
the  old  family.  God  bless  the  hand  that  makes  my  boy  so 
happy  ! 

Also,  Aleck  is  urgent  for  the  visit.  He  knows  he  shall 
meet  there  his  two  great  patronesses — Lady  Dorothy  and 
Lady  Maud,  to  say  nothing  of  his  child-goddess,  his  "  bonriie 
Lady  Ann."  For  me,  I  shall  meet — 

But  I  shall  meet  likewise,  what  every  where  has  encom- 
passed and  sustained  me — the  strength,  counsel  and  guard  of 
Him  who  has  never  forsaken  me,  nor  will  forsake  me,  even 
unto  the  end. 


The  first  day  and  night  of  our  visit  are  over. 

We  arrived  just  half  an  hour  before  dinner  :  and  I  saw  nc 
one  till  I  had  descended.  I  was  nervous  and  trembling ;  it 
was  ten  years  since  I  had  been  on  a  visit  any  where,  at  least 
in  such  a  stately  house  as  this.  It  was  a  positive  terror  tc 
me  to  descend  the  stairs,  until  at  the  foot  I  perceived  some 
one  waiting  for  me.  At  first  I  drew  back — till  I  saw  it  was 
only  Harry,  rny  own  kind  Harry. 

Hft  laughed  at  me  merrily  ;  and  I  went  in  the  drawing-room 


15»  BREAD  UPON   THE  WATERS. 

quite  bold  and  proud — oh  !  so  proud  !  leaning  on  my  boy's 
am. . 

I  can  not  tell  much  about  the  meeting,  except  that  Mrs. 
Redwood  was  very  gracious,  even  tender,  for  her  ;  that  she 
said  I  was  scarcely  at  all  altered  (ah  !  but  she  only  saw  me 
by  lamp-light,  and  with  her  feeble,  aged  eyes),  and  that,  wha< 
touched  me  most,  she  called  me  by  my  girl-name,  Felicia. 

For  her  son,  he  could  not  be  otherwise  than  kind. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Sir  Godfrey  left  Lady  Maud, 
with  whom  he  was  conversing,  and  took  me  down  stairs.  I 
did  not^  expect  that.  From  her  smile,  I  think  she  must  have 
told  him  to  do  it ,  showing  me  by  this  courtesy  that  I  still  held 
my  old  position  in  society.  If  so,  it  was  a  gentle  and  generous 
act,  like  Lady  Maud.  Once  in  the  evening,  when  a  cluster 
of  the  family-party  was  gathered  round  the  fire,  Sir  Godfrey 
telling  us  some  story  of  his  life  abroad,  arid  Lady  Maud  stand- 
ing to  listen,  her  elbow  resting  on  the  low  marble  chimney-piece 
— it  seemed  to  me  that  the  "  white  garden  lily"  looked  like  that 
flower  when  the  sun  comes  by  and  shines  upon  it,  making  it  not 
only  pure  but  thoroughly  translucent  with  beauty  arid  delight 

I  wonder,  did  any  one  else  see  her  with  my  eyes  ? 

This  morning  after  breakfast,  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  asked 
me  to  walk  with  him,  that  he  might  show  me  the  conserva- 
tories ;  and  there,  sitting  down  under  a  fair  orange-tree,  with 
the  sun  shining  in  upon  all  sorts  of  gorgeous  flowers  he  has 
brought  home  from  abroad,  he  talked  with  me  long  and 
seriously  of  the  future — of  my  brother's  future. 

He  says,  that  he  intends  entering  public  life  under  the  new 
ministry,  and  that  Harry,  now  more  than  'twenty  years  old, 
shall  be  his  secretary,  or  have  a  government  appointment,  as 
may  be.  The  boy  is  able  arid  willing  to  carve  out  his  own 
fortunes  now  ;  and  will  be  placed  where  he  need  not  dread  that 
one  word — which  Sir  Godfrey  never  uses — patronage.  He 
will  be  independent,  too,  though  not  rich  ;  and  as  I  said 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  159 

Henry  and  I  between  us  can  give  Aleck  what  he  desires— 
a  college  education,  to  fit  him  for  the  Church ;  so  that,  in 
every  way,  the  path  before  us  is  straight. 

And  here  came  in  Sir  Godfrey's  generosity,  which  I  can 
hardly  think  of  without  tears. 

He  asked  me  about  my  health — if  I  were  happy — if  I 
should  not  be  lonely  when  Aleck  was  at  Cambridge — and  if, 
as  rny  younger  brother's  college  expenses  could  easily  be  man 
aged  (ah  !  I  knew  how  !),  I  would  consent  to  give  up  teach- 
ing, and,  just  till  Harry  wanted  me  to  keep  his  house,  settle 
in  a  pretty  little  cottage  there  was  near  Redwood  Hall?  He 
said  all  this  with  some  confusion  and  hesitation  ;  but — let  me 
quite  assure  myself  of  that  fact — only  the  hesitation  of  a  deli- 
cate generosity  to  which  the  mere  act  of  seeming  to  bestow 
favors  is  a  pain. 

For  me,  if  I  were  somewhat  agitated,  he  would  easily  at- 
tribute it  to  a  similar  cause. 

I  answered,  that  I  had  always  lived  independent,  and 
wished  it  to  be  so  to  the  end  ; — that  it  was  much  better  I 
should  still  remain  a  governess.  Only,  as  I  had  rather  be 
with  those  I  loved  than  with  strangers,  perhaps  he  would  use 
his  influence  that  I  might  stay  permanently  with  Lady  Anne. 

When  I  said  "  use  his  influence,"  he  half  smiled  ;  then 
looked  sad.  and  said  gravely  that  he  had  no  influence  in  tho 
Airlie  family,  except  as  an  ordinary  friend. 

(Then,  things  are  not  yet  quite  as  I  imagined  !)  Sir  Godfrey, 
after  a  pause,  continued  the  conversation.  With  true  deli 
cacy,  he  did  not  oppose  my  wish  ;  and  I  shall  still  earn  my 
own  bread  honorably  and  usefully.  It  is  far  the  best :  an  idle 
life  would  kill  me.  Work,  constant  work,  is  tlje  sustamer, 
cheerer,  and  physician  of  the  soul. 

But  that  fact  alters  not  the  noble  kindness  of  this  most 
noble  man,  kindness  of  whijh  I  can  hardly  write  or  speak, 
but  which  T  shall  remember  while  I  live. 


160  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

After  our  talk  we  joined  the  others,  until  I  came  up  softly 
into  my  own  room,  to  be  quiet  and  rest. 

Henry  provided  for — placed  where  his  career  through  life 
lies,  humanly  speaking,  in  his  own  hands  ;  Aleck  given  his 
heart's  desire  :  how  happy  my  two  hoys  will  be.  And  how 
thankful,  solemnly  and  deeply  thankful,  am  I ! 

Sitting  a*  my  little  Gothic  window,  I  can  see  him — 1  mean 
Sir  Godfrey — walking  on  the  lawn,  with  Lady  Dorothy  and 
little  Lady  Anne,  How  happy  he  looks;  happy  as  a  man 
must  be  who  diffuses  happiness  wherever  he  sets  his  foot. 
Such  a  man  I  knew  he  would  become !  God  bless  him — 
God  evermore  bless  him  !  And  what  does  it  signify  how  far 
off  one  stands  from  great  treasures,  eternally  set  aside,  when 
one  knows  of  a  certainty  that  the  gold  has  not  become  dim, 
that  the  fine  gold  will  never  change ! 

"  Bonnie  Ladie  Ann"  comes  this  instant  bounding  in  at 
my  door,  discomposing  all  my  thoughts.  She  is  a  thorough 
little  elf  of  mischief ;  nobody  would  ever  dream  she  was  an 
earl's  daughter.  Nothing  will  serve  her  now  but  that  I  must 
come  into  the  chestnut  alley,  where  Sir  Godfrey  has  had  put 
up  for  her  a  most  aerial  and  magnificent  swing  ;  where, 
moreover,  he  is  actually  going  to  swing  her  himself,  and  the 
merry,  frolicsome  Lady  Dorothy  too.  They  say  I  must  go,  if 
only  to  play  propriety  among  such  madcaps. 

So  T  must  just  finish  my  journal  in  the  afternoon. 


"  In  the  afternoon" — these  are  the  last  words  I  find  writ- 
ten down  in  the  journal  so  long  put  aside. " 

Since  then,  many,  many  afternoons — many  days,  weeks, 
months — have  gone  by  ;  and  out  of  it  all  I  wake,  as  out  of  a 
nightmare  dream,  to  live  the  remainder  of  my  life — how  ? — 
God  knoweth  ! 

I  think  it  will  do  me  good  to  write  down  a  plain  account 


BREAD   UPON  THE  WATERS.  161 

of  the  strange  things  which  happened,  beginning  from  that 
moment — -which  the  sight  of  these  pages  causes  to  seem  fresh 
as  yesterday — when  1  laid  them  safely  by,  the  ink  scarce  dry, 
took  the  child's  hand,  and,  almost  as  gay  as  a  child  myself, 
ran  with  Lady  Anne  to  the  chestnut  alley. 

I  had  always  a  great  love  for  the  sight  of  chestnut  trees  in 
spring.  These  were  very  beautiful — great  towering  pyra- 
mids of  soft  green,  for  they  had  riot  yet  come  into  flower.  I 
remember  Sir  Godfrey  showed  me  a  bud,  and  reminded  me 
of  my  once  saying,  in  my  girlish  nonsense,  that  if  I  ever  own- 
ed a  park,  I  would  plant  it  all  over  with  horse-chestnut  trees. 
At  which  both  I  and  they  all  laughed — we  were  merry 
enough  to  laugh  at  every  thing.  For  me,  it  seemed  as  if  a 
spell  were  over  me,  some  sunny  reflex  from  my  former  days. 
Once  I  quite  started  at  the  sound  of  my  own  mirth  ;  nay, 
even  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  turned  round,  and  said  cordially 
and  merrily,  "  Why,  that's  right  !  You  are  laughing  just 
like  Felicia  Lyne." 

From  this  strange  excitement  I  can  only  account  for  my 
doing — what  in  a  staid  old  rnaid  and  a  governess  might  seem 
rather  out  of  place — namely,  that  I  joined  in  the  frolic,  and 
suffered  myself  to  be  persuaded  to  take  rny  turn  with  Lady 
Dorothy  and  Lady  Anne  in  the  swinging,  an  amusement  of 
which  in  my  girlish  days  I  used  to  be  passionately  fond. 

It  made  all  those  girlish  days  come  back  again  :  I  cau 
feel  it  now — the  wild  delight  of  flying  through  the  air  every 
minute  higher  and  more  daring,  touching  the  leaves  of  lofty 
boughs,  which  nothing  touched  but  the  birds ;  sweeping  back- 
ward— forward — with  my  bonnet  falling  off',  and  my  hair 
dropping  over  my  face  ;  hearing  Lady  Dorothy  clap  her 
hands,  and  little  Lady  Anne  scream  with  delight.  Even 
Sir  Godfrey,  forgetting  himself,  cried  "  Bravo,  Felicia  !  "enter- 
ing into  the  scene  with  all  the  excitement  of  a  boy. 

I  remember,  too,  that  he  said  something  about  "  swinging 


162  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

me  straight,  on  account  of  the  tree" — an  old  withered  trunk 
that  stood  near,  rather  in  the  way ;  and  that  I  laughed  at 
the  notion  of  danger,  when  he  was  there. 

So  I  was  dashed  on  from  height  to  dizzy  height,  his  great 
strength  urging  me  forward,  till  once,  when  his  hand  was  on 
the  rope,  little  Lady  Anne  cried  out  suddenly — 

"  There's  Maud  !" 

I  felt  the  swing  sweep  forward  aslant,  then  a  heavy  crush 
inir  blow — darkness — and  no  more. 


When  many  hours,  nay,  days,  afterward,  my  right  senses 
came  into  me  again,  I  awoke  to  the  knowledge,  kept  from 
me  for  a  long  time,  yet  gradually  revealed,  that  I  should  be 
disfigured  and  crippled  for  life. 

The  only  balm  to  this  misfortune,  was  the  consciousness 
tvhose  hand  had  unwittingly  caused  it  all. 

(Writing  this  sentence,  and  confessing  this  thought,  I  feel 
to  be  selfish  ;  yet  it  was  true.) 

I  believe  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  was  for  many  days  almost 
out  of  his  mind  with  grief.  He  could  not  feel  what  I  did — 
that  any  thing  coming  from  him,  was  to  me  far  less  bitter 
than  had  it  come  from  any  one  else.  And,  as  even  my  two 
poor  distracted  boys  must  have  seen  at  once,  and  did  see — 
the  whole  circumstance  was  so  entirely  an  accident. 

Of  course,  I  can  not  recollect  any  thing  of  the  time  when 
my  life  was  in  danger ;  and  every  one  has  appeared  reluctant 
to  speak  of  it  to  me  afterward.  Only,  as  I  now  and  then  hear, 
it  was  a  terrible  time  to  them  all.  It  seems  very  strange  to 
think  of  the  Redwoods  and  Airlies  hanging,  as  it  were,  on 
my  breath — such  a  frail,  useless  breath  as  mine. 


— I  write  this  account  in  pauses,  as  my  strength  is  still  not 

groat 

Tt  is  alwo  /s  painful  to  dwell  on   sickness  ;    and  in  this 


BREAD   UPON  THE  WATERS.  363 

mournful  world  we  ought  never  to  give  to  ourselves  oi  others 
a  single  unnecessary  pain.  I  shall  quite  pass  over  my  long 
illness  ;  out  of  which  I  woke,  and  found  the  harvest  ripened, 
and  the  reapers  reaping,  around  Redwood  Hall. 

It  was  exactly  like  wakening  into  a  new  world.  Only, 
not  that  world  into  which,  I  pray  God,  I  may  one  day 
awake,  to  be,  instead  of  what  I  am  now,  evermore  beautiful, 
active,  and  full  of  joy. 

The  first  time  I  quitted  my  room  was  quite  like  a  tri- 
iimphal  procession  ;  for  all  the  Ladies  Airlie  had  come  down 
m>m  London  to  see  me  :  indeed,  Lady  Maud  had  been  more 
or  less  at  Redwood  Hall  the  whole  time.  Sir  Godfrey's  pub- 
lic duties  kept  him  much  from  home,  which  was  a  blessing; 
d  must  have  been  great  torture  to  him,  to  come  back  while 
t  was  .miserably  lying  there.  They  would  not  let  me  sen 
viim  all  the  while. . 

Therefore,  our  first  interview  occurred  when  I  was  compar 
itively  well.  I  was  alone  when  he  came  in — he  had  begged 
that  it  might  be  so — and — but  my  heart  fails  me  when  I  re- 
viol  lect  those  two  hours. 

"  Forgiveness  !" — forgiveness  from  me  !  That,  looking  in 
<ny  face,  which  much  suffering  must  have  changed  consider- 
ably and  doubtless  made  quite  old,  he  should  have  burst  into 
such  uncontrollable  agony  !  That  he  sK.  uld  have  kissed  my 
poor,  thin  right-hand — the  only  one  he  could  kiss — and  that 
I  should  have  laid  it  on  his  head — his  noble  head  ! — telling 
him  I  was  quite  happy,  and  regretted  nothing,  except  that  I 
could  no  longer  be  a  governess. 

He  seemed  to  shudder  at  the  word,  and  passionately  as- 
sured me  that  I  should  never  want  any  thing  his  whole  for- 
tune could  bestow — that  his  own  sister  should  not  be  more 
honored,  or  regarded  more  tenderly  than  I. 

— I  am  quite  sure,  and  was  then,  that  the  word  "  sister' 
nnrst  from  him  instinctively,  as  being  the  very  impulse  and 


64         BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

echo  of  his  thoughts.  It  was  well  that  I  noted  this,  othe> 
wise,  from  the  passionate  emotion  of  his  whole  mamer  undei 
the  agony  of  such  a  time,  I  might,  as  has  happened  often  tc 
weaK  women,  have  been  somewhat  led  astray,  so  as  to  form 
erroneous  conclusions. 

Afterward,  when  he  had  become  more  himself,  and  his 
mother  and  Lady  Dorothy  had  joined  us,  he  insisted  on  taking 
Harry's  place,  and  carrying  me  into  the  other  drawing-room. 
I  could  say  nothing,  being  very  much  exhausted.  And  so  it 
happened,  that  while  he  was  holding  me,  I  fainted  in  his 
arms.  I  believe,  for  an  hour,  they  all  thought  I  was  dead  ; 
I  wish — but  no !  I  will  not  utter  that  sinful  longing. 

After  I  had  recovered,  I  was  left  to  sleep  ;  ay,  and  did 
sleep,  heavily  too,  for  a  long  time. 

Waking  at  length,  it  was  to  an  atmosphere  of  such  twi- 
light dimness  and  silence,  that  I  hardly  recognized  my  own 
room.  My  brain  must  still  have  been  somewhat  confused,  as 
I  remember  thinking  I  was  really  dead,  and  lying  quite  still 
and  motionless,  like  a  corpse,  until  gradually  I  gathered  up 
my  ideas. 

The  white  curtains  were  closely  drawn,  so  that  I  could  see 
nothing  ;  but  I  began  to  distinguish  a  soft  sound  of  talking, 
and  to  recollect  that  I  had  gone  to  sleep,  with  those  two  kind 
girls — in  whom  it  was  the  least  of  their  nobility  that  they 
were  an  earl's  daughters — sitting  by  my  bedside. 

Lady  Dorothy  was  speaking  in  a  whisper,  but  still  with 
that  strong  energy  which,  as  in  all  impulsive  characters,  con- 
tinually gleamed  through  her  mirth. 

"  I  tell  you,  Maud,  as  I  told  him  this  day,  he  ought." 

"  If  '  he  ought'  and  thinks  so  himself,  Sir  Godfrey  will 
probably  do  it  :  he  always  does  what  is  right,"  was  tho 
answer,  very  slow  and  quiet,  even  for  Lady  Maud. 

"  It  would  be  right ;  it  is  what  a  generous  man  ought  to 
do ;  it  is  the  only  reparation  he  can  make  her.  I  told  him  so." 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  16? 

'  And  what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Nothing  !  he  seemed  shocked — stunned,  as  if  he  had 
never  thought  of  it  before.  Yet  it  is  not  such  a  wonderful 
thing.  If  her  health  returns,  even  lame  as  she  is,  and  will 
be  always,  he  might  have  a  worse  wife  than  Felicia  Lyne." 

"Hush!  softer!" 

But  the  caution  was  too  late  ;  I  heard  all  clearly  now  : 
for  which,  most  earnestly  I  now  thank  God  ! 

"  So  you  think,"  said  Maud,  tremulously — "  so  you  really 
think  she  cared  for  him  ?  He  once  confessed  that,  long  ago. 
when  he  was  quite  a  boy,  he  was  half  in  love  with  her. 
And  any  one  whom  he  loved  or  who  loved  him — Yes ;  I  am 
glad  you  told  him  he  ought  to  many  her." 

Then  again  fell  around  me  the  silence — the  twilight 
gloom — almost  like  that  of  the  grave  ;  but  crossed  by  float- 
ing shadows  as  of  another  world. 

In  the  midst  of  it.  I  heard  Lady  Maud  softly  rise,  and  go 
out ;  and  then  I  called  to  Lady  Dorothy,  said  I  had  wakened 
much  better,  and  bade  her  go  down  stairs. 

Next  morning  I  heard  accidentally  that  Sir  Godfrey  Red- 
wood had  been  obliged  to  leave  hastily  for  town.  I  do  not 
know  any  thing  more  that  passed  in  the  household  :  all  things 
to  me  seemed  a  strange,  dizzy  dream  ;  and  I  noticed  no  one 
but  Lady  Maud. 

The  "  white  lily"  never  bent  nor  drooped  ;  but  looked  wan- 
like,  as  though  in  the  coming  shadow  of  its  life's  first  storm 


Two  or  three  days  after  then,  when  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  myself  again,  I  received  a  letter  from  Sir  Godfrey  Red- 
wood. It  contained  an  offer  of  his  hand. 

All  in  it  was  said  nobly,  frankly,  truly.  He  told  me — 
what  I  was  glad  to  know — that  he  had  loved  me,  boyish- 
fashion,  for  a  little  while,  until  circumstances  made  our  paths 


166  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

BO  different  ;  arid  a  man  can  not  live  upon  a  dream,  as  some- 
times women  do.  He  made  no  allusion  to  my  loving  him,  01 
his  loving  rne,  now  ;  but  merely  offered  me  his  hand,  with 
the  promise  of  spending  his  whole  life  in  honoring  me  and  in 
securing  my  happiness. 

My  happiness  !  As  if  I  would  have  accepted  a  whole  life- 
time of  joy,  did  it  cost  him  one  sacrifice,  one  regret  ! 

I  answered  his  letter,  saying,  not  untruly,  that  I  had  long 
given  up  all  thoughts  of  marrying  ;  and  that  it  would  be 
much  better  for  us  both  that  he  should  still  hold  me,  in  the 
words  he  had  lately  used,  as  his  "  sister."  There  was  no 
need  to  say  any  more. 

In  so  doing  I  took  counsel  of  no  one,  told  no  one,  except 
Lady  Maud.  To  her  I  mentioned  the  mere  facts  of  his  let- 
ter and  of  mine,  that  she  might  know  how  nobly  he  had  act- 
ed. She  listened  quite  silently,  as  she  sat  by  my  bedside} 
only  I  saw,  for  one  of  the  few  times  in  her  life,  her  falling 
tears  :  then  she  left  me  to  sleep.  I  did  not  sleep,  but  lay  all 
night  quiet  and  happy,  happier  than  for  many  years,  think- 
ing a  little  of  this  world,  but  more  of  the  world  to  come — oi 
my  mother — and  of  God. 

The  next  day  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  wrote  me  a  long,  affec- 
tionate, brother-like  letter,  pledging  himself  to  that  affection 
which  I  desire  to  keep,  and  believe  I  shall  keep,  to  my  dying 
hour. 

— The  day  after  that,  he  came  home.  Lady  Maud  and 
my  two  brothers  were  with  rne  when  he  entered.  He  met 
me  with  cordial  tenderness  and  joy,  and  when  his  eye  fell  on 
the  "  white  lily" — 

I  need  not  say  more,  but  that  that  happened  which 
was  sure  and  right  to  happen  ; — ere  the  week  ended,  we 
all  knew  that  there  would  be  at  last  a  Lady  Redwood  of 
Redwood  Hall. 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.         167 

I  have  thus  told  all  that  has  happened  within  this  year, 
which  has  now  circled  round  to  its  close. 

In  the  early  spring,  Lady  Maud  Airlie  will  become  Sir 
Godfrey's  wife:  and  Mrs.  Redwood  will  necessarily  form  a 
new  establishment.  She  has  asked  me  to  come  and  live 
with  her,  at  all  events  for  a  year  or  two  ;  but  I  had  rather 
go  home — to  the  quiet  and  comparatively  humble  home  made 
for  me  by  my  dear  Harry.  1  can  not  tell  clearly  how  things 
are  settled,  as  since  I  have  been  ill,  he  and  Sir  Godfrey 
do  with  me  as  they  please.  I  only  know  that  Harry  says, 
"  Sister,  come  home  ;"  I  shall  go  to  him,  and  be  at  rest. 

With  this  year  begins  a  new  life,  if  indeed  I  live,  as  th3 
physicians  say  1  may — and  as  I  would  desire,  though  from 
the  only  reason,  that  my  living  on  for  a  few  years  longer 
might  save  from  pain  him  with  whom  my  death  would  leave 
a  continual  pang.  But,  in  any  case,  I  shall  write  my  journal 
no  more. 


"  No  more  !" — Well !  a  resolution  kept  for  fifteen  years 
may  be  considered  sufficiently  strong  :  and  so  now,  having  alt. 
but  crossed  the  half-century  of  existence,  I  may  be  at  liberty 
to  finish  my  journal. 

I  don't  think,  though,  that  I  ever  shall  find  time  to  finis* 
it.  All  the  day  I  am  as  busy  as  busy  can  be  ;  and  besides, 
how  can  one  write  with  the  nursery  overhead,  and  hearing 
through  the  ceiling  the  pattering  feet  of  such  a  host  of  little 
Lynes  ?  If  Au-  tie  can  not  run  about  the  house,  they  can, 
goodness  knows  !  The  mamma  of  them  had  need  to  be  the 
sensible,  energetic  woman  she  is — Mrs.  Henry  Trevethlan 
Lyne. 

I  wrote  down  once,  in  strange  foreboding,  the  old  heathen 


U>8  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

apothegm,  "  No  man  can  be  called  truly  happy  until  he  dies. ': 
I  add  to  it  now  the  Christian  saying,  "  No  man  can  be  called 
truly  unhappy  until  he  dies."  That  is,  so  long  as  God  givee 
life,  He  also  gives  the  possibility  of  enduring  and  even  enjoy- 
ing it. 

I  did  not  learn  to  think  so  all  at  once,  and  even  now  I 
have  occasional  fits  of  depression,  hard  enough  to  bear;  but 
my  abiding  sense  is  that  of  great  peace,  cheerfulness,  and 
thankfulness.  Some  people  even  go  the  length  of  calling  the 
little  sitting-room,  where  of  necessity  I  am  much  confined, 
the  "  Lird's  Nest,"  from  its  being  an  atmosphere  so  cheery, 
pleasant,  and  warm. — Of  which  title  I,  the  owner  bird,  am 
mightily  proud. 

It  was  some  years  before  I  regained  the  use  of  my  left 
arm  ;  and  even  now  I  can  scarcely  manage  to  walk.  But 
my  darling  Harry  was  to  me  from  the  first  as  "  feet  to 
the  lame ;"  and  since  he  married,  I  have  gradually  gained 
six  pairs  of  little  trotters,  all  at  my  service  from  morning  til! 
night  :  BO  I  sit  in  as  lazy  state  as  an  eastern  empress. 

Only,  at  intervals,  finding  it  impossible  to  be  idle,  I  give 
up  "  tho  empress,"  and  turn  once  more  governess,  quite  in 
amateur  fashion,  with  no  other  salary  .than  kisses.  With 
this  excuse,  I  gather  into  my  bird's  nest  whole  flocks  of  young 
folk,  not  only  our  own  tribe,  but  those  of  other  people.  In 
this  way  there  came  to  me  last  week,  as  they  do  not  seldom, 
the  little  Godfrey  and  Anne  Redwood.  I  think,  after  all,  I 
love  those  two  children  best ! 

Lady  Dorothy — poor  and  portionless  as  she  was — has 
gained  a  strawberry-leaf  coronet  ;  but  "little  Lady  Anne"  is 
still  Lady  Anne  Aiiiie.  Time  enough  ! — and  except  that 
such  a  climax  would  be  quite  too  romantic,  save  in  a  story — 
I  have  now  and  then  vague  notions  that  when  Aleck  gets — 
what  Sir  Godfrey  Redwood  tells  me  he  is  (jtrite  sure  of  ere 


UEEAD  UPON  THE  WATERS.  169 

Ijng,  we  might  possibly  hear  of  "the  Dear,  of  So-and-so  and 
Lady  Anne  Lyne." 

Mentioning  Sir  Godfrey's  name,  I  can  but  add  to  it-  -what 
all  the  world  adds — a  blessing.  May  that  blessing  follow 
him,  as  such  a  noble  man  deserves,  to  his  life's  end. 

I  have  no  more  to  say. 

H 


ALICE  LEARMONT. 


MY    GODCHILD   AJ.ICE, 

t*   TlNDEH    WISHES   AND   FUTURB   KO?i«-< 

*  UeUfcate  t|)fs 


ALICE    LEAR  MONT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

;%  I  WONDER  at  ye,  Mistress  Thomas  Learmont.  It's  no 
canny  to  do  sic  a  thing." 

c:  What  mean  ye,  my  gudemither  ?"  wearily  answered  the 
person  addressed — a  woman,  young  and  gentle  looking.  Her 
figure  was  wrapped  in  a  coarse  mantle  of  Lowland  plaid,  and 
her  head-dress  was  a  humbly-fashioned  imitation  of  that  we 
see  in  the  likenesses  of  Queen  Mary  Stuart.  Still,  fair  wo- 
manhood transcends  all  quaintness  of  costume,  and  Mistress 
Thomas  Learmont  was  very  comely  to  behold. 

"  Gudemither' s  a  coarse  word;  ye  ought  to  say  'Dame 
Learmont'  to  your  husband's  mither,"  stiffly  observed  the  an- 
cient gentlewoman.  "  But  I  was  gaun  to  speak  to  ye  anent 
yourwark  there." 

"  Aweel !"  softly  said  the  younger  lady — a  lady  in  form 
and  nature,  though  possibly  not  quite  "  a  lady  born."  As  she 
spoke,  the  color  came  into  her  face,  and  she  looked  with  eyes 
wherein  shone  a  heavenly  light  on  her  handiwork — the  last 
crowning  handiwork  of  her  mother-joy.  She  had  been  ban- 
ishing the  cobwebs  and  dust  from  an  old  oaken  cradle,  and 
hiding  its  worm-eaten  holes  with  white  curtains  tied  with 
groen. 


174  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"  Ance  mair,  I  wonder  at  ye,"  sharply  repeated  Dame 
Learmont. 

The  poor  young  creature  looked  troubled.  "  I  wish  ye'd 
tell  me  your  mind,  my  leddy.  I'm  but  a  puir  peasant  lassie, 
and  dinna  ken  a'  ye  ken/' 

"  I  said  that  when  my  son  married  ye.  But  ye  needna 
greet,  Marion — let  byganes  be  byganes,"  added  the  old  lady, 
growing  more  pacified.  "  It'll  a'  come  richt  when  I  hae  the 
bormie  bairn  in  my  arms.  And  that  minds  me  o'  what  I  was 
gaun  to  say.  Ye  foolish  lassie,  I  marvel  ye  daur  put  on  tho 
wee  cradle  sic  braws  as  these." 

"  What's  wrang,  gudemither  ?" 

"It's  the  green,  Marion,  the  green;"  answered  Dame 
Learmont,  in  a  mysterious  voice.  "  Wad  ye  put  ae  thing 
that's  green  near  your  bairn,  and  you  a  Graharne  ?"  * 

"  I  am  no  a  Grahame  now,"  said  the  young  wife,  with  a 
gentle  smile. 

"  But  there's  the  old  blude  in  ye  still,  ye  canna  change 
that  (mair's  the  pity) ;"  added  the  mother-in-law.  "  And  if 
it  were  not  sae,  do  ye  no  ken  the  blude  o'  whilk  comes  your 
husband  I" 

"  Na,  na,"  sighed  the  young  woman,  absently  ;  and  her  eai 
was  bent  intently  to  catch  every  footfall  that  might  reach  the 
dilapidated  chamber  where  they  sat. 

"  Your  husband,  Marion  Grahame,  comes  frae  ane  that 
nae  mortal  grave  hauds  this  day.  Did  ye  never  hear  o'  True 
Thomas — Thomas  Learmont — Thomas  the  Rhymer  of  Er- 
cildoun?" 

"  G-ude  save  us!"  muttered  Marion. 

"  Him  that  wonned  into— the  land  ye  ken  o' t — for  seven 
lang  years,  and  came  back  ;  then  was  sent  for  by  the  gude 

*  Green,  the  fairies'  color,  is  always  fatal  to  be  worn,  especially  bj 
the  Grahames. 

t  It  is  counted  unlucky  to  mention  the  fairies  or  Fairyland  by  name 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  175 

folk,  and  never  seen  mair.  Frae  him,  after  many  genera 
tions,  came  his  namesake,  Thomas  Learmont,  your  bairn's 
father.  And  yet  ye  daur  to  tie  the  cradle  wi'  green  !" 

The  old  woman  advanced  and  attempted  with  her  feeble 
hands  to  undo  the  ill-omened  ribbons,  when  a  shadow  passing 
the  window — for  it  was  twilight — made  young  Mrs.  Learmont 
start  and  scream. 

"  Ye're  a  foolish  lassie,  flitched  wi'  ony  thing".  It's  only 
Daft  Simmie  o'  the  hill  at  his  sangs.  Hear  till  him." 

And  the  old  woman,  whose  superstition  seemed  only  to 
make  her  more  strong  and  fearless— even  in  these  days  con- 
fessed ghost  believers  are  often  bolder  than  spiritual  skeptics, 
who  deny  because  they  inwardly  tremble  to  admit — the  old 
woman  grasped  her  daughter-in-law's  arm  and  made  her  sit 
quiet,  listening  to  the  wild  but  not  unmusical  boyish  voice, 
singing  fragments  of  a  Border  ballad  : 

"  High  upon  Hielands  and  laigh  upon  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Campbell  rade  out  on  a  day. 
He  saddled,  he  bridled,  and  gallant  rade  he, 
And  hame  came  his  gude  horse — but  never  cam  he  !" 

"  Oh,  gudemither  !"  cried  the  young  wife  at  the  latter  om- 
inous words  ;  and  once  more  she  listened  for  footsteps,  or 
horse's  tramp. 

"The  gloaming's  unco  dark,"  Marion  whispered:  "the 
three  tops  o'  Eildon  Hill  look  like  ane  i'  the  mist.  Isna  my 
husband  lang  o'  comin  ?" 

"  Haud  your  tongue,  Mistress  Thomas,  ye're  no  fit  for 
a  Border  wife.  My  son  sail  come  and  gang  as  it  pleases 
him." 

"  Aweel,  aweel,"  again  patiently  sighed  the  young  creature, 
and  played  with  the  ribbons  of  the  yet  empty  cradle,  until 
the  voice  of  Daft  Simmie  made  her  start  once  more. 

It  was  other  verses  of  the  same  ballad,  sung  in  shrill  tones 
iust  under  me  window 


176  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"  Out  can  his  mither  dear,  greeting  fu'  sair, 
Out  cam  his  bormie  bride,  reiving  her  hair, 
The  meadow  lies  green,  and  the  corn  is  unshorn, 
But  bonnie  George  Campbell  will  never  return. 

"He  saddled,  he  bridled,  and  gallant  rade  lie, 
A  plume  in  his  helmet,  a  sword  at  his  knee  j 
But  hame  cam  his  saddle,  all  bluidy  to  see, 
And  hame  cam  his  gude  horse — but  never  cam  he  !" 

Hardly  had  ceased  the  song,  which  in  the  gathering  darkness 
sounded  almost  like  an  eldrich  scream — when  as  if  in  strange 
coincidence,  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  came  nearer  and 
nearer. 

"It's  himsel,  it's  himsel!"  cried  the  young  wife,  as  she 
leant  out  of  the  window,  beneath  which  the  animal  appar- 
ently stopped. 

He  stopped — the  good  roan — the  last  valuable  possession 
of  the  impoverished  Learmonts — stopped  of  his  own  accord, 
for  he  was  riderless  ! 

A  wild  scream  of  despair  burst  from  the  unfortunate 
Marion,  and  she  was  carried  into  her  chamber  insensible. — 
Ay,  even  to  a  mother's  throes. 

Dame  Learmont  was  of  the  ancient  race  of  Border- women , 
fearless  as  the  men  ;  she  uttered  no  shriek,  even  when  she 
saw  that  her  son  was  missing  ; — such  things  were  common 
enough  in  those  days.  The  descendants  of  True  Thomas 
had  changed  from  seers  and  rhymers  into  men  of  warfare  : — 
Ishmaelites,  whose  hand  was  against  many,  and  many  a 
hand  lifted  perpetually  against  them.  The  mother  guessed 
what  had  happened ; — that  in  some  sudden  fray  Learmont 
had  been  thrown  from  his  horse,  wounded  or — though  even 
her  bold  spirit  quailed  at  the  latter  fear — dead. 

"He  gaed  ower  Eildon  Hill  this  morn,"  mused  she  ;  "  and 
at  noon  there  cam  by  Willie  o'  the  Muir,  wi*  GeorJie 
Grahane,  Marion's  cousin,  that  bears  her  husband  nae  gudc 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  177 

will.  If  they  hae  foughten  there'll  be  bluid  on  the  roan, 
I'll  gang  an'  see." 

She  left  her  daughter-in-law's  couch  and  went  near  the 
horse,  who  still  stood  under  the  window,  shivering  in  every 
limb,  his  mouth  and  flanks  white  with  foam.  But  there 
were  on  him  neither  wounds  nor  blood ;  his  accoutrements 
were  not  disordered;  and,  except  for  the  overwhelming  ter- 
ror that  seemed  to  possess  him,  there  had  evidently  come  no 
harm  to  the  animal.  Nay,  even  the  small  burdens  fastened 
to  his  back  were  safe  ;  as  well  as  a  leathern  pouch  of  money 
that  had  been  thrust  under  the  pommel  of  the  saddle. 

"  Geordie  Grahame  or  Willie  Muir  wadna  hae  passed  this 
by,"  ironically  said  Dame  Learmont.  "  It  must  be  o'  his 
dn  will  that  my  son  stays.  Yet's  that  no  likely,  consider- 
ing his  puir  wife  in  her  trouble  ;  and  this  being  Hogmanay 
nicht  too — an  eerie  and  awsome  nicht  to  be  abroad." 

As  the  mistress  spoke,  some  of  the  farm-servants  trembled 
and  looked  over  their  shoulders,  while  others  examined  the 
horse's  disordered  mane  and  tail. 

"  Maybe,  they  hae  been  riding  him — the  wee  folk.  Eh, 
neighbors,  look  ye  here  ]"  whispered  one  man,  showing  in 
the  good  roan's  mane  the  knots  which  are  called  elf-locks, 
and  are  supposed  to  be  plaited  by  the  fairies,  who  often  have 
a  mind  to  ride  on  mortal  coursers. 

Dame  Learmont's  eyes  glittered,  as  if  she  felt  more 
pride  than  dread  in  the  uncanny  reputation  belonging  to  her 
family. 

"  It's  likely  eneuch,  she  said  mysteriously.  "  The  '  gude 
neighbors'  will  be  abroad  this  nicht,  as  we  a'  ken  ;  and  my 
son  Thomas  bears  his  great  Ancestor's  christened  name.  It 
is  maybe  nae  mortal  wark  that  keeps  him  sae  lang  frae 
harne." 

"  Gude  save  us  !"  "  Lord  hae  mercy  upon  us !"  cried 
the  servants  in  various  tones  of  fright,  eying  1heir  mistress 

H* 


178  ALICE   LEARMONT. 

with  considerable  distrust.  But  though  she  evidently  havi 
no  dislike  to  bear  the  credit  of  supernatural  powers,  still  she 
was  not  disregardful  of  all  human  means  that  could  explain 
the  absence  of  her  son.  She  called  the  farm- followers  and 
questioned  them  closely,  but  none  could  give  any  information. 

"  Ye  see,"  the  brave  old  lady  added,  driven  at  last  to 
circumstantial  evidence,  "  riae  harm  can  hae  befa'en  him. 
Tie  wnsna  fechting,  or  he  wad  hae  sticldt  close  to  Red  Roan. 
An'  he  hasna  been  torn  frae  the  saddle,  but  has  lichted  doun 
o'  his  ain  accord.  Na,  na,  sirs  ;  there  was  surely  ne'er  n 
fray." 

Her  resolute  voice  was  answered  by  an  idiotic  whine  be- 
hind the  crowd  ;  and  immediately  afterward  Daft  Simmio 
broke  out  in  one  of  his  queer  quavering  songs — 

"  There  were  twa  lads  fechtin'  on  Eildon  Hill, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hoodie  craw ; 
The  tane  the  tither's  bluid  did  spill, 
Ho  !  ho,  says  the  hoodie  craw." 

"There's  meanin'  in  it,"  whispered  the  servants.  "There's 
aye  a  meanin'  in  Daft  Sirnmie's  sangs,  and  he  sees  sights  the 
whilk  nane  ither  folk  can  see." 

But  the  stout-hearted  mistress  reproved  them,  and  catch- 
ing hold  of  the  lad,  tried  to  compel  him  to  plain  speech.  It 
was  in  vain ;  Simmie  was  either  too  foolish  or  too  wise.  Not 
another  word  could  be  got  out  of  him,  and  soon  the  "  gude- 
mither"  was  summoned  back  from  her  inquiries  concerning 
her  son  to  the  more  imminent  peril  of  his  wife. 

It  was  just  betwixt  the  night  and  the  day,  at  the  precise 
hour  which  forms  the  boundary  mark  of  the  old  and  new 
year,  that  the  child  came  into  the  world ;  a  remarkable  period 
of  birth,  being  the  hour  at  which,  according  to  the  supersti- 
tions of  many  countries,  the  unseen  world  of  spiritual  beings 
are  supposed  to  have  most  power.  At  any  other  time,  the 
:t  auld  wives"  might  have  been  struck  by  this  fact  ;  but  no\* 


ALICE   LEARMONT.  179 

the  whole  household  was  smitten  with  such  deep  grief  and 
confusion,  that  no  one  noted  so  unimportant  an  event  as  the 
birth  of  a  child  to  the  man  whom  they  were  beginning  tc 
conjecture  had  been  that  day  murdered.  Truly,  had  it  been 
a  boy,  the  unhappy  young  mother  might  well  have  christened 
her  new-born  "  Ben-oni" — "  the  son  of  my  sorrow."  But 
she  had  not  even  the  comfort  of  knowing  it  to  be  a  son,  born 
to  avenge  his  father  ;  it  was,  as  the  indignant  Dame  Lear- 
mont  expressed  it — "  nae  lad-bairn  :  just  a  puir,  wee,  skjrL 
ing  lassie." 

It  was  put  into  the  cradle — where  the  green  ribbons  still 
remained — the  old  grandmother  was  too  busy  and  excited  to 
heed  them  now.  There  the  poor  little  morsel  of  humanity 
lay  ;  while  Dame  Learmont,  now  somewhat  at  rest  respect- 
ing her  duties  to  mother  and  child,  began  to  arrange  a  plan 
for  finding  out,  dead  or  alive,  her  lost  son. 

Marion  hindered  her  little,  for  the  poor  girl  had  never  re- 
covered her  right  wits.  She  lay  in  a  dreamy  unconsciousness 
until  the  child  began  to  cry  out  from  its  little  cradle.  Then 
her  poor  white  lips  found  speech. 

"Gie  me  the  bairn,"  she  murmured;  "Gie  me  my  bairn.' 

It  was  touching,  the  emphasis  on  the  "  my" — the  first  in 
stinct  of  possession.  I  have  heard  women  and  mothers  saj 
that  this  instinct,  dawning  at  such  a  time,  was  the  mos' 
delicious  joy  they  had  experienced  during  life. 

"  Gie  me  my  bairn,"  again  wailed  the  half-conscious  Mar 
ion  ;  and  the  child  was  given  to  her. 

"Ye  needna  mak  sic  a  girning  and  greeting  ower  it,"  mut- 
tered the  old  woman  ;  probably  embittered  beyond  her  won< 
by  suppressed  anxiety  concerning  her  son.  "  It's  no  anithei 
Thomas  Learmont.  It's  only  a  lassie." 

Marion  took  no  heed.  She  lay  with  her  white  fluttering 
fingers  pressed  near  the  baby's  face,  talking  sleepily  to  hei 
self 


1 80  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"  Mither,  mither,  are  ye  there  ?" 

"Ay,  ay,  lass,"  answered  Dame  Learmont :  but  a  mo- 
ment's observation  showed  her  that  the  sick  girl's  thoughts 
were  not  with  her  at  ail. 

-'  My  mither,  my  ain  mither,"  continued  Marion,  feebly  ; 
"  I  ken  ye're  thinking  o'  me  now,  though  ye're  lying  cauld 
under  the  mools.  Ye  are  glad  it's  a  lass-bairri ;  and  sae  am 
I.  I'll  call  it  by  your  ain  name  ;  it's  a  bonnie  name — Alice 
— my  bairn  Alice." 

There  sounded  something  supernatural  in  these  wanderings 
of  a  bewildered  mind.  The  old  woman  stood  aside,  watch- 
ing with  a  vague  awe  the  countenance  of  her  daughter-in- 
law,  who  seemed  talking  to  the  air  ;  and  that  of  the  new- 
born babe  who  lay  staring  out  into  vacancy,  as  young  infants 
do  ;  its  wide-open  eyes  wearing  that  strange  look  which 
seems  as  if  infants  saw  things  which  others  could  not  see. 

"  It's  an  uncanny  time  ;  and  maybe  there  are  uncanny 
Things  about  them  baith,"  said  Dame  Learmont  to  herself) 
iu  a  frightened  whisper.  But  before  her  fear  could  increase 
she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  many  feet  and  voices.  She 
.ooked  down  into  the  court-yard,  and  there  saw  the  people 
of  the  farm  clustered  in  a  group  round  what  by  the  light 
of  their  lantern,  seemed — no  living  man,  but  a  drowned 
body! 

The  mother's  heart,  hard,  yet  still  a  mother's,  recoiled  at 
the  spectacle.  She  strained  her  feeble  sight ;  it  was  well ; 
for  now  she  had  strength  to  see  that  the  dead  man  was  not 
clad  like  her  son.  Yet  this  might  only  be  a  delusion.  She 
had  just  prudence  enough  not  to  betray  any  thing  to  the 
young  mother,  who  now  seemed  falling  into  a  doze ;  she 
took  the  infant  away,  laid  it  in  the  cradle  beside  the  bed, 
and  then  went  hastily  out.  leaving  the  door  ajar. 

Now  here,  my  wise  anti-superstitious  reader,  I  must 
request  you  to  pause.  What  I  am  about  to  tell,  you  will 


ALICE   LEARMONT.  18) 

find  quite  incredible  and  hard  to  be  understood.  1  shall  not 
stop  to  argue  with  you  at  all.  I  shall  only  say  that  this  my 
chronicle  is  a  consistent  chronicle  of  its  kind,  the  like  of 
which,  stoutly  verified  by  the  peasants,  may  be  found  in 
Nithsdale,  Galloway,  and  indeed  all  along  the  Scottish 
Border.  I  do  but  revivify  in  a  more  complete  and  connected 
form  the  fragments  of  lore  attested  concerning  a  race  of 
beings  whose  peculiarities  may  truly  be  considered  to  belong 
to  pre-historic  annals. 

Marion  Learrnont  was  lying  quite  still,  in  a  state  of  entire 
exhaustion,  which  however  was  rather  pleasant  than  other- 
wise, as  if  a  lulling  spell  had  been  cast  upon  her.  Her  eyes 
were  half  open,  and  she  indistinctly  saw  the  room — a  large 
ghostly  chamber  dimly  lighted  by  the  wood-fire  only ;  for 
her  mother-in-law  had  taken  away  the  lamp.  She  was  cer- 
tain that  she  was  awake,  for  she  noticed  the  several  bits  of 
furniture — the  oaken  chair,  the  sole  remnant  of  worldly  gear 
which  she  herself  had  brought  into  the  family  on  her  marriage 
— the  rude  table  and  the  curtained  top  of  her  baby's  cradle. 
She  even  observed  the  snow  lying  in  a  thin  drift  along  the 
margin  of  the  window-panes,  stealing  half-melted  through, 
forming  a  large  round  globule  of  water  which  rested  on  the 
great  Bible  that  was  placed  on  the  window-sill. 

Gradually  the  red  embers  smouldered  into  darkness,  and 
the  shadow  cast  from  the  door  standing  ajar,  grew  blacker 
and  wider.  All  at  once  she  heard  a  buzzing,  whispering,  and 
laughing  ;  a  noise  not  loud  but  very  sweet.  Soon  the  ghostly- 
looking  shadowy  corners  were  full  of  moving  light.  It  came 
from  faces  peeping  in  at  the  door.  Then  a  troop  of  little 
creatures  entered  one  after  the  other,  thick  and  fast,  until  the 
whole  room  was  full  of  them. 

They  seemed  at  first  like  very  beautiful  children.  But  as 
Marion  looked  again,  she  saw  they  were  perfect  little  men 
and  women,  exquisitely  formed,  and  gracefully  dressed  in  air) 


182  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

rcbes  of  all  colors — especially  green.  The  youths  were  armed 
with  quivers  made  of  bright  adders'-skin,  and  arrows  of  reed. 
The  maidens  had  long  yellow  hair,  fastened  back  from  their 
shining  brows  with  combs  of  gold.  Many,  both  men  and 
women,  had  their  heads  adorned  with  the  flower  called  fairy- 
cap,  or  with  white  convolvuluses.  Every  one  of  them  was 
fair  to  look  at,  but  chiefly  the  first  who  had  entered,  a  lady 
taller  than  the  rest,  who  wore  a  crown  either  of  diamonds  or 
dew-drops ;  Marion  thought  that  never  was  there  a  coronet 
so  glittering,  lucid,  and  clear. 

The  tiny  visitors  had  brought  no  visible  torcheSj  but  some- 
how the  whole  room  about  them  grew  light  wherever  thcj 
tripped.  And  they  tripped  about  every  where,  in  the  mer- 
riest, most  fantastic  round,  continually  following  the  tallest 
lady,  who  came  on  more  softly  and  gravely  than  the  rest. 

Then  Marion  knew  that  these  were  elves,  and  that  this 
was  the  Queen  of  Fairies  who  had  loved  and  carried  away 
her  husband's  ancestor,  Thomas  the  Rhymer  of  Ercildoun. 

It  was  very  strange,  but  though  she  seemed  to  guess  all 
this  as  by  a  sort  of  intuition,  she  felt  not  in  the  least  afraid. 
The  sight  was  so  dazzling,  so  delicious  ;  its  glamour  changed 
the  dark  old  chamber  into  a  fairy  palace.  She  herself,  though 
seemingly  without  the  power  or  desire  of  speech,  had  no  sense 
of  physical  or  mental  pain — no  grief  concerning  her  husband 
— no  terror  for  her  child.  She  lay  and  listened  in  a  sort  of 
spell-bound  delight  to  the  little  people,  as  they  talked,  danced, 
and  sang,  glittering  hither  and  thither  like  a  swarm  of  lumin- 
ous gnats. 

At  last  the  Queen  of  Fairies,  making  a  large  circuit  round 
the  window  to  avoid  the  "  big  ha'  Bible,"  which  lay  there — 
came  and  stood  beside  the  baby's  cradle. 

Now,  alas  !  the  young  mother  knew  what  her  elfin  majesty 
was  come  about.  But  the  knowledge  was  vain;  Marion 
received  it  in  her  mind  without  being:  terrified  in  her  heart. 


ALICE  LEAUMGNT.  183 

All  human  feelings  or  affections  seemed  to  have  grown  cold 
in  the  ecstatic  delight  of  the  fairy-show. 

"It's  a  fine  bairn,  and  a  bonnie  bairn — very!"  said,  in 
quite  intelligible  and  most  enchanting  accents,  the  lady  who 
had  been  True  Thomas's  love.  "  The  Learmonts  have  not 
grown  uglier  in  all  these  years — that  is,  hundreds  of  years — 
we  forgot  that  we  are  on  earth  just  now,"  she  continued, 
sententiously,  as  ascending  gracefully  an  extempore  staircase 
obediently  framed  of  the  arms  and  legs  of  fairy-squires,  she 
reached  the  top  of  the  cradle,  and  sat  down  right  in  front 
of  the  babe's  blue  eyes — which,  however,  were  fast  closed. 

"  What  very  sleepy  things  mortal  infants  are,  ny  ladies," 
observed  her  majesty.  "  I  wonder  whether  sl^  will  wake 
when  we  get  her  to  Fairyland  ?" 

At  this  some  slight  pang  of  maternal  dread  *  tacie  Marion's 
heart.  She  tried  to  cry  out,  but  just  then  the  fairy-lady 
turned  upon  her  her  diamond  eyes,  glittering  and  gay,  which 
looked  as  if  they  never  had  wept — could  weep — or  had  need 
to  weep.  Their  steely  brightness  froze  up  all  the  tears  that 
were  pressing  under  the  eyelids  of  the  mortal  mother,  born  a 
woman,  and  as  a  woman  made  to  know  suffering. 

"  Behold  her,"  said  the  fairy,  laughing  with  a  sharp,  clear, 
bell-like  mirth  ;  "she  is  afraid  !  She  thinks  we  would  harm 
the  wee  thing  !  Not  we  !  No,  Mistress  Thomas  Learmont 
(a  fine  name  that,  but  nothing  like  so  fine  as  the  first  man 
who  bore  it),"  and  the  little  lady  heaved  a  sigh,  which 
seemed  so  light  as  to  be  only  a  pause  in  her  mirth.  "  No, 
Mistress  Thomas,  I'll  do  your  child  no  harm  ;  if  only  for  the 
love  I  bear  to  your  husband's  people,  especially  his  great  An- 
cestor and  himself — ha  !  ha  ! " 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  fairy  troop,  with  a  merry 
moaning,  and  pointed  out  of  the  window.  There,  even 
through  the  darkness,  Marion  fancied  she  saw  the  white 
waves  of  the  Tweed  foaming  and  dashing,  and  the  gray  mists 


184  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

floating  almost  in  human  shapes  over  the  triple  summit  ol 
Eildon  Hill. 

"  For  the  love  I  bear  your  husband,"  continued  the  Eli- 
queen,  "  I  will  even  let  you  see  your  bairn  on  her  birth-night 
every  year  for  three  years,  and  then  once  in  every  seven,  ac- 
cording as  she  chooses  ; — a  fair  bargain." 

"  A  very  fair  bargain  !"  chorused  the  delighted  little  peo 
pie. 

But  nature  in  the  mother's  heart  was  stronger  than  even 
the  glamour  that  was  over  her.  Though  unable  to  speak,  she 
stretched  imploring  hands.  The  blithe  troop  only  mocked 
her,  hovering  over  her  bed  like  a  swarm  of  bees,  and  dinning 
her  ears  with  their  melodious  songs.  Once  she  tried  to  raise 
herself  and  get  nearer  to  her  sleeping  babe,  but  invisible  hands, 
soft  and  cold,  like  those  of  dead  children,  held  her  back  ;  and 
the  fairy-lady,  sitting  upon  the  top  of  the  cradle,  laughed  ai 
her,  making  elfin  grimaces  which  sent  all  the  rest  into  a  tit- 
ter that  rung  through  the  room  like  the  sound  of  the  wind 
through  a  cluster  of  waving  rushes. 

"  It's  useless,  Marion  Learmont ;  you  must  just  lie  still 
arid  dree  your  weird ;  and  this  is  not  the  only  weird  that 
waits  ye.  Quick — quick — my  people  !  the  gudewife  will  be 
back  soon." 

While  she  spoke,  the  poor  mother  saw  the  elves  take  up 
her  child,  who  wakened  at  once.  The  queen  looked  at  her 
with  her  great  bright  eyes,  and  instantly  a  gleam  of  strange 
intelligence  came  into  those  of  the  hour-born  babe. 

"  She'll  do;  she's  a  bonnie  one  ;  there  is  not  her  like  in  all 
Elfland.  Haste — get  her  ready." 

Instantly  two  or  three  motherly-looking  fairies,  wearing 
respectable  silken  robes  and  heather-bell  caps  advanced,  and 
slipping  ofTthe  child's  wrappings,  left  it  a  little  soft  lump  of 
oeauty,  fit  oven  for  the  caresses  of  a  fairy. 

/:  A  sweet  wee  pet,  and  fortunately  not  christened  yet;  sc 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  18£ 

she  shall  be  altogether  ours,  and  we  will  find  her  a  name  in 
Fairyland. 

But  here  the  mother  uttered  what  seemed  to  herself  a 
heart-piercing  shriek,  but  which  was  in  fact  only  a  low  mur- 
mur of  "  Alice — Alice.'" 

"  Very  well,  if  it  so  please  you,  my  good  woman  ;  I  am 
quite  satisfied.  My  elves,  call  her  Alice,"  answered  the 
Queen  of  Fairies,  bending  with  a  grace  as  winning  as  when 
she  met  the  first  Thomas  Learmont  under  Eildon-tree. 

"Alice — Alice,"  chanted  out  all  the  "wee  folk,"  in  a 
chorus  ravishingly  sweet.  It  was  broken  by  a  noise  far  less 
delicious  and  more  mundane  :  the  sharp  clattering  voice  of 
Dame  Learmont.  At  the  sound  the  light  in  the  chamber 
vanished ;  there  was  a  rustling  and  murmuring,  which  at 
last  ended  in  a  faint  shout  of  eldrich  laughter — then  silence. 

The  mother-in-law  coming  in,  found  her  patient  in  an 
agony  of  grief. 

"  What  for  do  ye  greet,  lassie  1  ye  ought  to  thank  God 
and  sing  for  joy." 

"  My  bairn  !  my  bairn  !" 

"Ne'er  fash  yourself  about  it:  the  ill-faured  wean.  Think 
o'  your  husband  that  is  alive,  and  Geordie  Grahame  deid. 
They  twa  had  a  sair  tussle  for  't,  Daft  Simmie  says,  for  he 
saw  them  ;  Geordie  fell  intil  the  Tweed,  and  was  washit  up 
to  our  door-stane.  But,  I  doubt  not,  my  ain  laddie's  safe  and 
awa." 

"  Far  awa,  far  awa,"  groaned  the  poor  mother.  "  And 
my  bonnie  bairn's  gane  too." 

"  Ye're  daft  or  dreaming,  Marion.  Here's  the  bit  thing 
soun'  asleep." 

She  rocked  the  cradle  rather  roughly,  but  there  was  no  cry 
or  stirring  from  within.  The  little  cap  lay  turned  faceward 
on  the  pillow  ;  there  were  the  outlines  of  the  form,  carefully 
wrapped  up  so  as  to  resemble  a  sleeping  infant.  But  what 


186  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

was  the  grandmother's  horror  when  she  lifted  it  up  and 
found — no  living  child,  but  a  piece  of  wood,  rudely  carved 
into  something  like  humanity,  and  dressed  in  the  clothes  of 
baby  Alice. 

"  It's  ane  of  Simmie's  images — he  has  been  at  his  deil's 
wark,  and  stown  away  the  bairn,"  cried  the  old  woman,  as 
frantically  she  quitted  the  room,  to  set  on  foot  a  search  for 
the  missing  child. 

But  whether  this  supposition  was  true,  or  whether,  as  the 
grief-stricken  mother  firmly  believed,  the  fairies  had  carried 
away  her  darling,  certain  it  was  that  all  search  proved  vain, 
and  neither  Thomas  Learmont  nor  little  Alice  coulO  be 
found. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHITE,  and  in  long  wavy  wreaths,  lay  the  snow  on  Eildon 
Hill.  The  new  year  was  not  an  hour  old,  and  yet  all  about 
the  three  peaks  it  was  as  bright'  as  day.  Many  a  hardy 
mountain  ram  started  in  its  fold,  and  trembled  to  hear  the 
silvery  ringing  of  fairy  bridles  resounding  in  the  night  air. 

Great  sport  was  the  Fairies'  Raid.  On  they  came — a 
goodly  troop,  flashing  along  the  high-roads,  over  the  hedges, 
and  through  the  plowed  fields;  on  elfin  nags — black,  chest 
nut,  gray — whose  hoofs  left  no  mark  on  the  smooth  snow. 
Yet  what  with  their  prancing  and  singing  and  laughing,  the 
fairy  folk  made  as  much  noise  as  a  company  of  living  horse- 
the  instant  one  awakens.  And  many  a  dreamer  in  Melrose 
that  night  heard  such  sounds,  wondering  whence  they  came, 
men.  But  it  was  like  sounds  heard  in  a  dream,  that  fade 

"  Heigho  !"  said  the  Queen  of  Fairies,  as  she  reined  in  her 
palfrey  at  the  spot  where  the  triple-peaked  hill  divides. 
"  Heigho  !  for  my  bonnie  green  wood,  where  I  met  True 
Thomas  !  It's  all  hewn  down.  Hardly  would  I  know  the 
upper  world  again.  Very  provoking  !  that  people  will  plow 
and  till,  and  turn  waste-lands  into  meadows.  They  look 
much  prettier  as  they  are,  do  they  not,  Counselor  Kelpie  ?" 

This  was  addressed  to  the  water-sprite  of  that  name,  an 
ugly  creature,  half-man,  half-brute,  who  had  crept  out  of 
the  shallows  of  the  Tweed  to  fawn  at  her  majesty's  feet. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  for  my  part,  if  folk  keep 
on  growing  so  prudent  and  clever,  building  bridges  and  boats 
I  will  never  get  a  living  soul  to  drown." 


188  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"Ha,  ha  !"  laughed  the  queen.  "  But,  good  Kelpie,  have 
you  kept  safe  the  treasure  I  lent  you — the  youth  that  slew  his 
fellow  in  an  evil  fray,  and  so  fell  into  the  fairies'  power  ?" 

"  He  is  safe,"  answered  the  Kelpie,  in  a  voice  hollow  as 
the  waters  rising  in  a  well.  "  He  lies  in  an  underground 
cave,  through  which  my  river  oozily  creeps.  He  will  sleep 
there  until  his  wounds  are  healed  ;  and  there  will  not  even 
be  one  wet  lock  in  his  yellow  hair  when  you  find  him  resting 
by  the  streams  of  Fairyland.  But,  oh  !  queen  ;  if  you  would 
but  have  let  Kelpie  have  him  !" 

"  Could  not,  my  ancient  friend  !  Quite  impossible.  His 
great  ancestor  is  growing  tiresome  now,  and  we  want  a  new 
mortal  in  Fairyland.  Besides,  soon  will  come  the  seventh 
year,  when  we  must  pay  the  teind  to  hell." 

A  low  wail  broke  from  the  fairy  troop  at  the  mention 
of  this,  the  sole  shadow  on  their  perpetual  joys — the  tribute 
of  one  of  their  number  exacted  by  the  Arch-fiend  every  seven 
years. 

But  the  pause  was  only  momentary  ;  for  the  elfin-race 
have  an  existence  entirely  soulless,  free  from  human  grief, 
affection,  or  fear.  Soon  again  were  the  silver  bridles  ringing 
merrily  up  the  white  hill-side. 

"  Where  is  my  changeling  1  Where  is  the  child  ?"  cried 
the  queen,  suddenly  stopping. 

"  Here,  gracious  majesty !  A  weary  burden  it  is  too  ;  hu- 
man babies  are  so  helpless  and  so  fat." 

And  a  fairy-lady  toiled  up  ;  bearing  before  her  on  a  palfrey 
the  unlucky  infant,  who  lay  pale,  cold,  and  half  dead  ;  a 
weight  perfectly  enormous  for  the  elfin-steed  to  bear. 

"  Kanitha,  guardian  of  the  fairy  youth,  your  salary  shall  be 
increased  to  four  golden  rods  a  year,  if  you  do  your  duty  by 
my  small  friend  here.  What  ho  !  Alice,  open  your  eyes." 

The  queen,  dismojnting,  amused  herself  with  poking  her 
dainty  fingers  under  the  pale  eyelids  of  the  mortal  babe,  and 


ALICE  LEA.RMONT.  189 

playing  with  its  frozen  limbs,  white  as  the  snow  on  which 
they  lay. 

"Madam,"  observed  a  sage  elf-lady,  "it  is  a  fact  scarce 
worth  bringing  under  your  highness's  notice,  but  nevertheless 
true — that  earthly  mothers  are  so  foolish  as  to  pay  attention 
to  their  babes — swaddling  them  warmly — hugging  them  in 
their  arms,  and  giving  them  nourishment  from  their  own 
breast.  We  never  think  of  such  trouble  in  Fairyland. 
Nevertheless,  unless  something  is  done  for  this  babe,  your 
majesty  will  be  disappointed  in  your  sport,  for  the  little  thing 
will  slip  away  in  that  curious  fashion  which  mortals  call 
dying.  It's  a  trick  they  have." 

"  How  very  unpleasant,"  said  the  queen.  But  she  had 
not  time  for  more,  when  suddenly  the  chanticleer  of  some 
honest  Tweedside  farmer  began  to  cry  aloud  ;  and  far  down 
Melrose  village  appeared  dim  lights  creeping  about  like 
glow-worms.  The  world — the  hard-working  patient,  much 
enduring,  yet  happy  world,  was  waking  again  to  its  New 
Year. 

"  We  must  begone,  elves  ;  we  must  begone  !"  Snatch- 
ing wee  Alice  in  her  own  regal  arms,  the  Queen  of  Fairies 
stamped,  once,  twice,  thrice.  Immediately  the  hill  side  was 
cloven,  and  a  dark  gate  opened  itself  before  her.  Thither 
she  passed  with  all  her  train.  The  earth  closed  behind  them 
— leaving  not  a  trace  along  the  mountain  heather,  not  a  foot- 
step in  the  snow. 

But  far — far,  through  the  underground  passage  went  the 
merry  elves,  up  and  down,  along  and  across  ;  past  valleys, 
plains,  and  mountains ;  through  black  and  thundering  rivers, 
by  smooth  lakes,  and  over  seas.  The  little  babe  in  its  deathly 
stupor  saw  nothing  of  this  :  it  lay  immovable — its  eyes  sealed, 
until  at  last  they  opened  on  a  green  bank  in  Fairyland — 
Fairyland,  which  was  like  earth  in  its  gayest  aspects  ;  a 
region  of  perpetual,  unvaried  pleasure  ;  a  clime  where  there 


190  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

was  neither  summer  nor  winter  :  a  day  which  knew  neithoi 
noon  nor  night ;  a  sky  in  which  was  never  seen  either  sun 
or  cloud.  So  live  the  fairy  people  ;  an  intermediate  race, 
created  for  neither  earth,  heaven,  nor  hell. 

Alice  Learmont  came  to  life  again  there.  The  little 
limhs  stretched  themselves  out,  the  eyes  opened,  and  the  first 
sound  she  uttered  was  that  with  which  we  mortals  enter 
into  the  world,  and  which  we  must  utter  at  intervals,  until 
we  cease  to  suffer  and  to  breathe  together — a  cry  of  pain  and 
anguish. 

It  was  quite  new  to  fairy  ears.  All  the  little  people  stop- 
ped theirs,  and  bounded  about  in  disquiet  ;  doubtless  thinking 
their  mistress  had  brought  a  most  unpleasant  element  into 
the  elfin  society.  And  when  the  unhappy  changeling  rolled 
its  heavy  head  about,  and  helplessly  stirred  its  fingers,  they 
began  to  mock  and  sport  with  it,  as  being  a  creation  so  very 
much  inferior  to  themselves. 

"  This  will  not  do,"  said  her  elfin  majesty,  with  dignity,  "  I 
had  another  intent  in  entering  the  door  which  Dame  Learmont 
BO  kindly  left  ajar  for  me.  I  wished  a  babe,  new-born,  un- 
".hostelled,  who  might  receive  with  our  teaching  something 
of  the  elfin  nature,  and  so  be  content  always  to  stay  in  Fairy- 
land. For," — and  her  majesty  shrugged  her  fair  round 
shoulders,  beautiful,  though  laden  with  gossamer  wing-like 
appendages  that  might  have  been  considered  unbecoming  in  a 
mortal — "  for  it  is  a  curious  and  altogether  unaccountable 
fact  that  these  human  folk  are  never  satisfied  ;  and  even  my 
True  Thomas  has  a  hankering  after  the  troubles  of  earth 
sometimes.  As  for  his  descendant,  this  wee  lady's  father — 
I  vow  I  shall  scarcely  be  able  to  keep  him  a  year  of  his  own 
free  will. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  exclaimed  the  sympathetic  elves,  in  token  of 
i.heir  wonder  and  indignation. 

"  Now,  my  subjects,  see  what  I  intend  to  do ;  we'll  turn 


ALICE  LEARMOM".  191 

this  coarse  bit  of  humanity  into  a  creature  something  iiku 
ourselves.  Behold  !" 

She  touched  the  infant's  head  with  her  sceptre,  a  silvei 
lily — and  soon  the  inanimate  meaningless  features  grew  into 
the  beauty  of  sense  and  consciousness.  The  eyes  became 
quickened  to  distinguish  objects,  the  lips  seemed  perfecting 
themselves  into  speech.  It  was  the  face  of  a  grown  person, 
or  of  a  child  prematurely  wise. 

"  Ha  !  ha !"  laughed  the  elf;  she  seemed  to  do  nothing 
except  laugh.  "  But  we  must  have  a  body  to  match." 

She  passed  her  hand  down  the  weak,  shapeless  limbs,  and 
they  expanded  into  delicate  form.  The  little  girl  stood  up- 
right on  her  feet,  a  tiny,  old-fashioned  figure — less  beautiful 
than  the  elves,  for,  though  fair  enough,  she  was  no  fairer 
than  she  would*have  been  had  she  grown  up  as  Alice  Lear- 
mont  of  Tweedside  ; — a  miniature  woman,  but,  as  her  expres- 
sion showed,  gifted  with  little  more  than  the  understanding 
of  a  child. 

"  Well  rny  changeling,  how  do  you  feel  1  what  do  you 
want  ?" 

"  I'm  hungry,"  said  the  little  mortal. 

"  Eh !  she's  a  low-born  lassie  after  all,"  cried  the  Queen 
of  Fairies,  turning  up  her  roseleaf  of  a  chin  ;  "  take  her  away, 
and  feed  her  with  milk  from  the  fairy  cows.  I  must  go 
see  after  my  grown  mortal,  my  braw  young  Thomas  Lear- 
mont." 

A  merry  life  they  led  in  Fairyland,  where  a  day  lengthen- 
ened  out  to  the  pleasures  of  a  year,  and  a  year  glided  past  as 
easily  and  happily  as  a  single  day.  Alice  Learmont  was  as 
one  of  them  ;  sprung  at  once  from  babyhood  to  maturity — at 
least  the  only  maturity  the  fairies  ever  knew  ;  for  their  exist 
snce  was  like  that  of  perpetual  childhood,  without  its  sorrows 
They  suffered  not,  because  to  feel  is  to  suffer,  and  they  never 
felt ;  all  their  life  was  sport,  and  all  their  sport  was  unreal 


192  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

glamour.  Nevertheless,  they  were  merry  elves,  and  the  little 
child  Vrho  would  else  have  spent  its  first  year  of  babyhood 
slejping  on  its  mother's  breast,  was  the  very  cynosure  of  all 
elfin  eyes. 

"  So,  you  seem  satisfied  enough  with  yourself,  my  little 
Princess  E,oyal  of  Fairyland,"  said  Kanitha,  the  fairy  peda- 
gogue-ess ;  "  You  have  looked  at  your  large  image  long  enough 
in  that  stream.  Truly,  you  are  growing  quite  a  coarse  child 
of  earth,  and  very  like  your  mother." 

"  What  is  a  mother  ?" 

"  A  thing,  my  little  lady,  to  be  all  that  I  am  to  you — m 
the  way  of  feeding  and  rearing  you.  But  you  will  see  for 
yourself  to-morrow,  for  it  is  your  birth-day,  and  our  merry 
mistress  will  send  you  home  for  an  hour." 

Alice  began  to  cry. 

Now  crying  was  an  original  and  hereditary  accomplishment 
which  the  little  mortal  had,  and  which  was  quite  unknown 
in  Fairyland.  Whenever  she  set  up  a  wail — which  she  did 
in  true  baby  fashion — the  elves  immediately  stopped  their 
ears  and  skipped  away. 

Therefore,  before  the  changeling  had  screamed  for  a  minute, 
she  found  herself  lying  alone  amidst  the  remnants  of  the  feast 
arid  the  musical  instruments  of  the  dancers.  Even  a  vocal 
concert  that  was  being  carried  on  in  a  large  water-lily  leaf, 
had  ceased  :  the  performers,  six  aquatic  elves,  and  their  tutor, 
an  ancient  frog,  having  dived  under  the  bulrushes,  in  agony 
at  being  outdone  in  their  own  profession  by  a  mere  ama- 
teur. 

Alice  lay  and  sobbed — it  might  have  been  until  evening  > 
but  there  is  no  twilight  in  Fairyland — no  dawn,  nor  close  of 
day  ;  all  is  one  unvaried  brightness — a  changeless  song — a 
shadowless  picture.  As  the  child  lay  pulling  the  daisies — 
that  as  she  pulled  them  sprouted  again — trying  in  how  musi- 
cal tones  she  could  cry.  there  fell  across  her  a  tall  dark  shade. 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  i'J3 

Now  the. elves  are  small  and  have  no  shadow — theufore 
this  stranger  could  not  have  been  of  their  race.  And  when 
he  spoke  it  was  not  in  the  speech  of  Fairyland,  but  with  an 
accent  quite  new  to  Alice.  Yet  it  thrilled  her  with  an  in- 
stinct of  pleasure. 

"  Wherefore  greet  ye,  Alice  Learmont  ?  Hae  ye  ony  sor- 
row?1' 

"What  is  sorrow? — I  do  not  know.  I'm  crying  to  amuse 
myself,"  answered  the  little  creature,  as  she  looked  boldly  up 
at  her  questioner. 

He  was  a  tall  man — past  middle  age — of  grand  and 
stately  mien.  His  lips,  close  set,  seemed  as  if  they  rarely 
opened  ;  for  it  was  on  them  that  the  kisses  of  the  Fairy 
Queen  had  left  the  wondrous  spell  that  they  could  utter 
nothing  but  truth.  He  was  the  wondrous  Seer — the  Pro- 
phet who  never  foretold  falsely — the  Bard  before  his  age- 
Thomas  of'Ercildoun. 

Many  generations  had  passed,  since,  following  the  mysteri- 
ous hart  and  hind  which  came  as  his  summoriers,  True 
Thomas  had  vanished  from  earth  ;  and  yet  he  still  abode  in 
Elfland,  with  the  same  aspect  that  he  had  worn  when 
dwelling  at  Ercildoun  and  walking  on  Eildon  Hill. 

"  Did  ye  never  hear  tell  o'  sorrow,  Alice  ?  Then  the 
Learmonts  o'  this  day  are  aye  happier  than  in  my  time. 
But  I  mind  that  ye  were  a  new-born  wean,  just  snatched 
frae  mither's  breast.  Ye'll  gang  back  to  earth  the  morn  !" 

His  voice  was  pensive,  and  the  light  of  his  eye  sad  ;  but 
Alice  gamboled  about,  as  unheeding  as  a  young  fawn  of  the 
wilderness. 

It  was  the  hour  when  all  grew  quiet  and  lonely  in  Fairy- 
land— for  the  elfin  people  were  abroad  working  their  merry 
wiles  on  the  midnight  earth.  At  that  time  Alice  was 
always  used  to  fold  up  her  little  limbs  and  go  to  sleep  like  a 
flower — for  only  flowers  slept  in  Elfland.  Thus  drooped  she. 

I 


94  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

regardless  of  the  presence  of  the  stranger,  and  indifferent  to 
his  anxious  speech.  He  watched  her  a  long  time  silently,  and 
then  tried  to  arouse  her. 

"  Waken,  Alice  Learmont !  it's  brief  time  that  I  hae  for 
speech  wi'  the  youngest  o'  my  race.  Tell  me,  bairn,  how 
things  are  in  my  ain  countrie  ?  Rins  the  Tweed  clear  as 
ever,  and  does  the  sun  glint  as  red  ower  bonriie  Melrose  ?" 

Ho  sighed,  but  Alice  only  laughed  "  I  know  little  about 
it,  old  man  ;  will  you  leave  me  to  sleep  ?" 

"  Sleep  ?"  said  he,  "  sleep  ? — when  ye  are  gaun  hame  to 
your  mither,  and  your  father  lies  sae  near  that  ye  might  hear 
the  soun'  o'  his  breathing — every  breath  a  sigh  !  Lassie, 
lassie,  look  ye  here  !" 

He  lifted  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  to  a  river 
side.  There,  bedded  in  the  weeds  and  rushes,  lay  a  stalwart 
form,  deathlike,  yet  alive.  Water  efts  and  bright-tinted  fishes 
were  sporting  over  the  large  limbs  ;  blue  forget-me-nots 
grew  up  and  twisted  themselves  in  natural  garlands  among 
the  yellow  hair.  The  decaying  garments  were  dropping 
off  from  the  manly  chest,  which  yet  heaved  in  regular  suspi- 
rations.  He  who  thus  lay,  motionless  yet  living,  bound  by 
elfin  spell,  was  the  younger  Thomas  Learmont. 

"  I'm  wae  to  see  ye,  my  son,"  softly  said  the  Rhymer 
"  Why  will  ye  gainsay  them  that  it's  vain  to  gainsay  ? — 
It's  no  hard  to  live  here  in  Elfland." 

The  youth  turned  and  muttered,  as  if  in  sleep — "  I  canna 
loe  strange  women;  and  I  wad  fain  gang  hame  to  my  wife 
Marion." 

Thomas  of  Ercildoun  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  robe,  in  sorrow,  perhaps  even  in  shame. 

Meanwhile  the  sportive  infant  leaped  from  him,  arid  pad- 
dling among  the  rushes,  climbed  up  and  sat  astride  on  tho 
form  of  the  spell-numbed  man,  crowing  aloud  with  glee. 

"Alice,  the  'gude  neighbors'  hae  made  ye  like  themselves,*' 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  193 

said  the  old  Seer,  mournfully.  "  Else  ye  wadna  be  sae  light 
o'  heart  beside  your  puir  father,  nor  when  ye  are  sune  to  bo 
creeping  to  your  mither's  breast." 

"Is  that  as  pleasant  as  playing  among  the  flowers,  01 
dancing  in  the  grand  halls  here?"  cried  the  little  changeling, 
making  queer  grimaces,  and  comporting  herself  in  all  things 
like  a  soulless  elf.  The  Rhymer  lifted  his  voice  in  anger, 
when  a  low  murmur  of  reproach  arose  from  the  younger 
Thomas. 

"  It's  just  a  puir  bit  wean,  a  twalmonth  auld  !  Alice, 
gang  back  to  your  mither,  and  then  she'll  mind  o'  me." 

The  little  child  paused  a  minute,  as  if  some  natural  in- 
stinct, awakened  by  her  father's  voice,  were  at  work  within 
her.  But  soon  she  relapsed  into  her  gambols,  and  then, 
pausing  to  listen,  clapped  her  baby  hands. 

"  They  are  coming — the  beautiful  elves.  I'm  away,  oid 
man,  away  to  my  playmates." 

Thomas  the  Rhymer  looked  up.  There  were  clouds  oi 
dust,  and  behind  them  a  gallant  company — the  same  that  in 
the  days  of  his  youth  he  had  seen  pass  along  the  greenwood 
side.  It  was,  he  knew,  daybreak  on  earth,  and  the  "  good 
neighbors"  were  speeding  back  to  Fairyland.  He  stole  away 
from  his  descendant,  in  alarm  and  sharne,  lest  his  compassion 
should  work  him  ill  ;  and  went  forth  to  meet  his  elfin- 
mistress,  for  whose  sake  he  had  forsaken  earth  and  all  its  ties 
for  evermore. 


CHAPTER  III. 

I  TELL  ye,  gudemither,  it  was  nae  dream.  I  saw  her—  1 
felt  her — my  bonnie  doo — my  sweet  lassie — my  ain  bairn  ! 
She  was  wi'  me  this  ae  nicht — ay,  i'  these  arms." 

So  sobbed  out  Marion  Learmont,  as  she  sat  in  breathless 
sorrow  beside  her  wheel,  by  which  she  and  her  husband's 
mother  earned  their  daily  bread — two  desolate  women. 

"  The  Lord  keep  ye  in  your  wits,  dochter,  and  forgie  ye 
•sic  fancies  !  Puir  lassie,  ye're  a  widow  and  childless,  like 
my  ain  sel.  For  it's  ower  certain  that  your  gudeman  was 
drowned  in  the  Tweed — and  Daft  Simmie — de'il  take  him  ! 
has  stown  awa'  your  bairn.  Ye'll  ne'er  see  tane  nor  tither 
mair." 

"  Gudemither,  I  will !"  said  the  girl  solemnly.  "  There's 
mony  a  ane  brought  back  frae  the  wee  folk  ;  and  my  bairn's 
alive,  for  I  hae  seen  her  riot  four  hours  syne." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  but  there  was  something 
BO  earnest  in  Marion's  manner  that  she  seemed  rather  less 
incredulous. 

"  Tell  a'  the  truth,  lassie.     It'll  do  nae  harm." 

"  It  was  i'  the  mirk  o'  night,  just  afore  mooririse;  I  wauk- 
ened,  sabbin'  because  o'  a  dream  I  had,  that  my  puir  bairn 
was  sleeping  at  my  side ; — and  I  felt  a  wee  bit  cheek,  saft 
and  warm,  creepin' — creepin'  till  me  !  It  was  a  wean 
gudemither  !  It  was  my  ain  Alice  !" 

"  Gude  guide  us  !" 

"  She  lay  here  at  my  breast,  wi'  her  sweet  lips  close,  and 
drank,  and  drank — or  it  seemed  sae.  I  tell  ye,  this  ae  nicht 
I  hae  gi'en  mither's  milk  to  my  dear  bairn." 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  l'J7 

41  It's  a'  the  wark  o'  the  Evil  Ane,"  whispered  Dame 
Learmont.  "  But,  Marion,  If  ss,  in  what  form  gaed  she  awa  ! 
In  a  flash  o'  fire,  nae  doubt  ?:> 

"Ye  speak  ill,  gudernithir,"  cried  the  young  creature, 
tried  past  her  patience,  "  It's  nae  deil's  wark — it's  the  \vee 
folk  that  hae  changed  my  bairn,  as  I  tell't  ye." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  with  incredulous  pity. 
She  did  not  like  that  any  who  were  riot  strictly  of  the  Lear- 
mont blood  should  attain  to  the  honors  of  fairy  intercourse. 
Still,  as  Mistress  Thomas  persisted,  shegrewmore  acquiescent. 

"  Maybe,  Marion  ;  but  then  the  bairn  could  be  naething 
but  a  wee  deil — a  changeling." 

"  I  tell  ye  she  was  my  ain  bairn." 

"  The  new-born  wean  ye  scarce  set  e'en  on  ?" 

"  Na,  na  ;  but  a  bonnie  lassie — a  twalmonth  auld,  as  she 
wad  be  this  day  ?" 

"  Ance  mair,"  said  Dame  Learmont,  mysteriously,  "  ance 
mair,  I  ask — how  did  she  gang  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken,"  sobbed  Marion.  "  I  was  sleeping  soim'. 
and  she  slippit  awa'  frae  my  arms  like  a  snaw-wreath,  and 
was  gane.  Wae's  me  for  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn!" 

Thus  sorrowed  the  forsaken  mother,  more,  perhaps,  as  a 
mother  than  a  wife ;  for  certainty,  the  slayer  of  hope,  is 
oftentimes  the  healer  of  despair — and  she,  as  well  as  the 
whole  country  side,  believed  that  Thomas  Learmont  had 
been  drowned  in  the  Tweed  and  washed  out  to  sea.  But 
nothing  ever  shook  Marion  in  her  statement  that  she  had  seen 
her  babe  carried  away  by  fairies.  And  when  the  strange 
story  which  she  told  on  the  first  anniversary  after  her  loss 
was  repeated  the  next  year  and  the  next,  people  began  to 
look  on  her  with  awe  and  respect,  not  unmirigled  with  a  sort 
of  dread . 

On  the  thirl  New-year's  eve  the  young  widow — as  she  he 


198  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

lieved  herself  to  be — was  sitting  in  the  large  room  which  in  the 
days  of  the  Learrnonts  had  been  the  well-furnished  farmer's 
kitchen.  It  was  now  desolate  enough,  for  the  two  women — 
relicts  of  the  last  two  of  the  race — were  very  poor.  On  this 
winter-night,  Darne  Learrnont,  sick  and  ailing,  had  been 
taken  to  the  charity  of  some  far-away  kin;  but  Marion  re- 
fused to  quit  her  home.  There  she  sat,  heavily  turning  her 
wheel  by  the  light  of  one  half  burnt  fagot,  shivering  with 
cold,  listening  to  the  howling  of  wind  and  rain  ;  or  perhaps — 
so  strangely  thrilled  was  her  mother-heart — listening  for  some 
Dther  sound  which  she  hoped  would  come. 

'•'•  I  winna  try  to  sleep,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I'll  bide, 
pud  see  what  this  year  brings." 

So  she  sat  and  harkened,  but  heard  nothing  save  the 
burring  of  her  wheel  and  the  noise  of  the  storm  without,  un- 
til between  twelve  and  one,  the  hour  that  marked  the  bound- 
ary of  the  old  and  new  year.  Then,  in  a  pause  of  the  rain, 
Marion  fancied  she  heard  a  faint  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  ben,"  she  said,  thinking  it  was  a  neighbor  belated, 
and  sorrowful  that  the  hour  of  her  accustomed  joy  had  passed  by. 

"  I  can  not  corne  ben,  unless  ye  open  to  me." 

It  was  a  child's  voice  ;  yet  at  once  sharper  and  sweeter 
than  a  child's.  Could  it  come  trom  those  soft,  but  always 
dumb  lips,  that  had  clung  to  her  bosom  yearly  at  this  time  ? 

Trembling,  Marion  tottered  across  the  room,  and  unlatched 
the  door.  There  in  the  bleak  night,  stood  a  little  shivering 
child,  dressed  in  a  tattered  cloak,  with  its  arms  all  bare  and 
drenched  with  rain.  Alas  !  it  did  not  look  like  her  fairy 
child  :  but,  nevertheless,  the  kind  woman  drew  it  in. 

"  Puir  wee  lassie,  what  gars  ye  stay  out  sae  late  ?  Hacye 
nae  rninriie  at  hame  ?  What  for  do  ye  greet  sae  sair  ?" 

But  the  child  made  no  answer,  for  no  sooner  had  she  been 
lifted  over  the  threshold,  than  her  crying  was  changed  into  a 
shout  of  laughter.  The  old  rags  dropped  from  her  and  she 


A], ICE  LEARMONT.  199 

stood  in  the  centre  of  the  dark,  miserable  room,  a  lovely  three- 
years'  child,  dressed  in  the  shining  robes  of  Fairyland. 

"  It's  my  bairn,  it's  my  bairn,"  cried  the  mother ;  as  re- 
gardless of  the  wondrous  glitter  and  supernatural  aspect  of 
the  visitor,  she  ran  to  clasp  her.  But  the  little  thing  flitted 
from  her,  and  escaped. 

"Are  ye  no  my  ain?  Will  ye  no  come  to  me  ?"  sobbed 
Marion  in  an  agony.  But  Alice  only  laughed  the  more,  and 
gamboled  about  the  house  without  noticing  her. 

"  Alice,  Alice,"  shrieked  the  mother,  following. 

"  Ay,  I'm  Alice.     What  do  you  want  ?" 

This  was  all  the  child  said,  and  continued  her  play.  But 
the  mother  had  at  length  heard  the  sound  of  her  daughter's 
voice.  The  little  one  had  even  ibr  the  first  time  answered 
to  the  name  "Alice."  It  was  joy  enough,  and  too  much; 
Marion  Learmont  fell  on  her  knees,  and  weeping,  thanked 
Sod. 

While  she  murmured  her  prayer,  the  changeling's  wild 
sports  and  laughter  were  momentarily  hushed ;  and  a  faint, 
sweet  shadow  of  earth  stole  over  the  elfin  brightness  of  hei 
countenance.  She  came  up  softly,  and  said — 

"  What  are  you  ("  ing  that  for  ?" 

"  For  thankfu'  joy,  that  He  may  bless  ye  and  save  ye,  my 
bairn,"  cried  Marion,  ceasing  her  prayer  in  the  delight  ol 
embracing  her  child.  But  no  sooner  had  she  risen  from  her 
knees,  and  tiied  by  tender  force  to  hold  her  darling  fast,  than 
Alice  slipped  away,  and  laughed,  and  mocked,  and  played 
strange  elfish  antics,  until  even  the  mother's  self  was  terrified. 
She  began  to  weep,  not  now  for  joy,  but  for  very  sorrow 
The  changeling  only  jested  the  more. 

"  How  dull  and  queer  you  seem,  big,  dark-looking  woman 
of  earth  !  and  what  coarse  clothes  you  wear,  and  what  an 
ugly  place  '.his  is  !  Where  are  your  pretty  gold  tables,  and 
shining  clothes,  and  beautiful  dancing-halls  ?" 


200  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"  I  hac  nane,  my  bairn  ;  I  am  but  a  puir  woman,  that  live 
my  lane  in  poortith  and  care.  But  I  wadna  grieve,  gin  i 
had  but  ye,  my  dochter  !" 

And  once  more  Marion  tried  to  draw  to  her  arms  the  bright 
being  who  looked  a  child  and  spoke  like  a  denizen  of  Fairy- 
land. For  a  minute  or  two  Alice  staid,  seemingly  amused 
by  the  novelty  of  caresses. 

"  What  are  you  doing  to  me  ]"  she  cried. 

"  I  haud  ye  fast,  my  darling ;  and  I  gie  ye  ae  kiss,  and 
anither — and  anither,"  answered  the  mother,  fearlessly  press- 
ing her  lips  to  the  soft  hair  that  was  bound  with  the  garlands 
and  redolent  of  the  perfumes  of  Elfland.  I  loe  ye,  my  bairn  ; 
Iloe  ye!" 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?" 

"  Do  ye  no  ken  ]  Did  ye  never  hear  o*  love  in  Fairyland  ? 
Oh,  then  come  hame,  Alice  ;  come  hame  !"  sighed  the  mother, 
in  passionate  entreaty.  But  perpetually  the  bright  creature 
escaped  her  clasp. 

For  an  hour,  which  seemed  a  moment,  yet  an  age,  Marion 
Learrnont  watched  the  gambols  of  her  elfin  child  flitting 
about  the  desolate  house.  Awe-struck,  she  crouched  be- 
side where  the  fire  had  been,  and  heard  strange  shouts  of 
invisible  laughter  echoing  Alice  and  mocking  herself.  At 
last,  the  house  seemed  to  grow  stiller,  and  Marion  felt  a 
drowsy  oppression  creeping  over  her.  The  changeling,  too, 
as  if  tired  out  with  play  like  a  mortal  child,  had  laid  herself 
down,  and  suffered  the  mother  to  fold  her  in  her  arms.  Thug 
secure,  Marion  yielded  to  irresistible  weariness  and  fell 
asleep. 

Tn  the  cold  dawn  she  woke,  but  it  was  to  stretch  out  her 
empty  arms  and  moan.  The  child  was  gone.  All  over  the 
house  was  silence,  solitude,  and  gloom.  Only,  tinkling,  in 
her  brain  was  a  sort  of  musical  rhyme,  which  seemed  like  a 
tune  heard  in  dreams  or  just  in  the  act  of  waking,  and  re- 


ALICE  LEARMONT  201 

membered  afterward.     It  had  little  connected  meaning' ;  yet 
still  the  mere  words  clung  tenaciously  to  her  memory — 

"  Prayer  o'  faith  is  an  arm  o'  aim  ; 
— Whilk  will  ye  hae,  spouse  or  bairn  ?" 

While  amidst  her  frantic  lamentations,  the  wife  of  Thomas 
Learmont-  paused  to  think  over  this  rhyme,  the  first  ray  of 
daylight  glinted  into  the  room,  and  rested  on  a  relic  belong- 
ing to  her  husband's  family.  It  was  a  portrait  blackened 
with  smoke  and  age,  yet  now  the  face  seemed  to  grow  defined, 
even  lifelike.  She  could  have  fancied  that  the  eyes  turned 
toward  her  with  a  human  expression  of  pity  arid  gentle  sad- 
ness. And  she  shuddered,  remembering  what  awful  tales 
were  told  of  that  picture — the  portrait  of  her  husband's  won- 
drous ancestor,  Thomas  the  Rhymer. 

She  closed  her  eyes  in  terror,  nor  opened  them  again  til], 
in  broad  daylight,  she  saw  it  was  only  a  picture  on  the  wall 

I* 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FAR  up  the  Eildon  Hill  there  were  footmarks  in  the  Neu 
year  snow :  small  light  traces,  as  if  some  poor  barefooted  child 
had  been  there  wandering  through  the  night.     But  when  thn 
marks  reached  the  Eildon  Tree,  they  vanished  suddenly  and 
were  no  more  seen. 

The  mortal  child  was  once  more  in  her  home  in  Fairy- 
land. She  awoke,  as  if  out  of  a  sleep  or  trance,  and  found 
herself  lying  on  the  green-sward,  in  the  warm  light  of  that 
sunless  day.  She  stretched  her  limbs  with  delight,  and 
drank  in  the  pleasant  air. 

"  Oh  !  this  is  happy,"  she  said,  and  began  once  more  to 
revel  among  the  flowers.  She  was  alone,  but  that  mattered 
little  in  Elfland,  where  all  sought  their  own  pleasure,  and 
such  a  thing  as  sympathy  was  unknown.  It  troubled  her 
when  she  saw  coming  over  the  valley  toward  her,  that  tall 
Shadow,  grave  and  pale,  who  ever  met  her  after  her  yearly 
visits  to  earth. 

Alice  tried  to  escape,  and  hid  herself  among  the  willows  of 
the  stream;  but  her  laugh  betrayed  her,  when,  looking  down, 
she  saw  a  brave  sight  and  a  merry — at  least,  so  the  elf-child 
thought. 

There  was  the  figure  of  the  spell-bound  man,  the  sport  of 
all  Fairyland  for  three  years.  He  had  half  broken  from  his 
enchantment,  and  lifted  himself  out  of  the  water  ;  his  long 
yellow  hair  and  beard  flowed  down  upcn  his  breast,  mingled 
with  rushes  and  water-reeds  ;  his  eyes  were  still  closed,  but 
his  face,  unlike  that  of  a  drowned  ma:i,  was  bright,  ruddy, 
and  lighted  with  hope.  Nevertheless  tears  quivered  in  the 
heavy  lashes  as  the  child  approached. 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  203 

"  Wherefore  grieve  ye,  my  son  ?"  said  Thomas  the  Rhyrn* 
er,  as  with  slow  footsteps  he  followed  Alice  to  the  river  side. 

"  I  see  wee  feet  near  me,  the  feet  that  are  yet  white  frae 
the  snaw  on  Eildon  Hill." 

"  And  why  listen  ye  to  ilka  sound,  my  son  ?" 

41 1  hear  a  blithe  voice  ahint  me,  the  voice  that  spak  wi1 
far  yestreen.  Oh,  Marion,  Marion  !" 

The  tones  died  away  in  a  wail,  as  the  young  Borderer's 
head  sank  upon  his  breast. 

True  Thomas  gazed  upon  his  descendant,  and  the  pensive 
repose  of  his  own  features  was  overshadowed.  "  Gin  I  had 
been  like  ye,  a  leal  lover  and  faithfu'  spouse,  I  hadna  wonne 
into  Fairyland.  My  puir  bodie  wad  be  lying  saft  aneath  the 
Tower  o'  Ercildoun,  and  the  saints  in  paradise  wad  keep  my 
saul.  But  what's  dune  is  dune.  Even  ye,  my  son,  your  ill 
deed  maun  be  punished  ;  yet  for  a'  that,  ye  sail  gang  back 
safe  to  bonnie  Melrose,  and  live  happy,  though  in  poortith  and 
toil.  For,  as  I  hae  foretold  lang  syne, 

'  The  hare  sail  hirple  on  my  hearth-stane, 
There'll  ne'er  be  a  Laird  o'  Learmont  again.'  " 

So  spoke  he,  with  a  grave  sweetness,  becoming  the  lips  that 
never  lied.  At  his  words,  strong  shudders  convulsed  the 
frame  of  young  Thomas  Learmont. 

"Oh,  it's  hame  that  I  wad  be;  hame,  hame  !"  he  moaned  ; 
and  his  moaning  went  up  to  the  pale  sky.  and  his  trembling 
shook  the  glassy  waters  of  Elfland. 

Alice  crept  away,  as  if  she  feared  or  disliked  the  sight  of 
emotion,  a  thing  to  her  unknown.  She  went  merrily  to 
watch  beside  the  golden  gates  of  the  enchanted  vale  until  the 
fairy  train  returned. 

Thomas  the  Rhymer  sat  and  watched  too.  His  harp  lay 
at  his  feet — the  same  harp  which  had  echoed  in  the  Tower 
of  Ercildoun  ;  sometimes  he  touched  a  chord  or  two,  chanting 
fragments  of  his  own  poem  of  "  Sir  Tristram,"  once  so  re^ 


SStH  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

nowned,  the  very  name  of  which  is  now  scarce  remembered 
along  Tweedside.  As  he  sang,  his  face  shone  with  the  cairn 
and  solemn  beauty  of  middle  age,  which  two  centuries  had 
left  unchanged  ;  only  that  over  all  was  a  vague  sadness  and 
unrest  which  came  at  times,  when  earthly  memories  marred 
'.he  even  tenor  of  his  elfin  joys. 

He  had  not  long  sat  waiting,  when  from  afar  was  heard  the 
bridle-ringing  that  heralded  the  Queen  of  Fairies  and  her 
court.  True  Thomas  laid  down  his  harp  and  smiled. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  musingly  ;  "  'tis  a  sweet  sound  ;  I  mind  it 
weel.  Blithely  sung  the  mavis  on  Huntley  Bank  ;  the  grass 
was  saft  and  green,  and  the  gowans  wat  wi'  dew.  Oh,  but 
ye  were  a  May  meet  for  a  young  man's  luve,  my  bonnie  Elfin 
Queen  ?" 

So  spoke  he,  and  behold  afar  the  gallant  train.  In  the 
midst  of  it,  riding  on  her  dapple  gray  palfrey,  all  in  her  green 
kirtle  set  with  beryl-stone,  he  saw  the  lady  of  his  love — even 
as  she  appeared  to  him  the  first  time  out  of  the  greenwood 
by  the  hill  side  ;  and  his  grave  eye  kindled  like  that  of  an 
aged  poet  at  the  memory  of  youthful  dreams. 

But  the  fairy  lady  Avas  not  given  to  dreaming.  Merrily 
rode  she  on,  her  palfrey's  bells  ringing  at  every  step  ;  a  min- 
gling of  silver  bells  and  silver  laughter.  Lightsome  and 
heartless  was  the  glitter  of  her  eyes,  and  gayly  swept  she  the 
Rhymer  by,  like  the  changed  goddess  of  many  a  young  bard's 
worship. 

He  followed  her  with  aspect  thoughtful  indeed,  but  not 
love-lorn  :  he  had  no  more  lives  of  earth  to  peril  for  a  moment 
of  passion.  Slow  and  grave  was  his  step  as  he  entered  the 
elfin  ring. 

"  Ha  !  my  True  Thomas,  hither  you  come  at  last  :  is  it 
hr  news  of  the  bonnie  banks  of  Tweed  and  the  gray  towel 
of  Ercildoun,  where  the  white  owl  sits  beside  the  '  hoodit1 
craw'  ?  Would  my  bold  Thomas  wend  thither  again  ?" 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  305 

•'  Never  mair,  never  mair !"  sighed  he  :  "  But  I  wad  fain 
riac  speech  wi'  ye,  my  ladye  and  my  queen." 

"  Say  on,  only  sigh  no  more,  it  torments  my  merry  elves. 
And  we  have  been  having  a  blithesome  raid,  up  and  down  in 
the  snow ;  scaring  and  leading  astray  folk  that  have  been 
abroad  keeping  their  New-year  ;  ha  !  ha  ! 

'Lord  what  fools  these  mortals  be  !' 

as  sings  a  young  English  poet,  whom  I  would  say  for  sure 
had  been  in  Fairyland,  only  he  paints  me  so  little  after  re- 
ceived tradition,  and  so  much  out  of  his  own  fancy,  that  I 
hardly  know  my  own  likeness.  Eh,  my  elves  !  shall  we  send 
nome  our  ancient  Rhymer,  and  go  to  Avon's  banks  to  steal 
sweet  Will?" 

"  Ye  sport  and  jest,  my  ladye  and  love,"  said  True  Thomas, 
sadly  ;  "  ye  heed  not  that  the  year's  began — the  seventh  year. 
When  its  second  mom  appears,  ye'll  see  the  Evil  Ane  wend 
up  that  sloping  road  to  claim  the  teind  to  hell." 

Terror — the  sole  terror  they  knew — seized  the  fairy-folk ; 
the  dances  ceased,  and  the  gitterns  and  lyres,  falling  from 
elfin-hands,  began  to  wail  of  their  own  accord. 

"Who  fears  ?"  said  the  Queen.  "  Let  the  teind  be  paid  ! 
I  have  a  fine  stout  mortal  fattening  under  Kelpie's  hands,  in 
the  river  near.  Ha,  ha  !  my  young  Thomas  Learmont  will 
serve  my  turn  well." 

"Nae  harm  can  touch  the  lad,"  answered  the  Rhymer, 
sternly.  "  He  has  a  wife  at  hame  wha  prays  for  him  nicht 
and  day,  to  Ane  that  here  we  rnaunna  name.  I  foresee  that 
this  same  year  a  mortal  will  be  won  away  frae  Elfland." 

"  You  grow  bold  in  speech,  my  knight  of  old  !" 

"  I  speak  wi'  the  lips  that  canna  lee." 

The  queen  looked  as  abashed  and  angry  as  it  was  possible 
for  a  fairy  to  look.  "I  marvel,  True  Thomas,  that  your 
vision  extends  no  further,  and  that  though  you  are  grown  old 


206  ALICE  LEABMONT. 

and  ill-favored  with  two  centuries  of  life,  you  do  not  see  youi 
noble  self  wending  that  fated  road." 

And  she  pointed  to  a  downward  slope  blackening  in  the 
distance,  from  which  all  the  elves  turned  their  eyes,  for  the) 
knew  it  was  the  gate  of  hell.  On  the  other  hand  rose  the 
thin  cloudland  of  Paradise  !  while  between  both,  like  glisten- 
ing fantastic  towers  with  fair  landscapes  between,  was  seen 
the  land  of  Faery. 

The  Rhymer  gazed  around,  and  turned  to  his  mistress. 
"  Do  ye  mind,  my  queen,  the  day  ye  laid  rny  head  on  your 
knee,  and  showed  me  thae  three  sights  1  For  your  luve  I 
wonned  frae  earth,  and  I  hae  tint  heaven  :  but  hell  will  ne'er 
open  her  mouth  for  me.  I  maun  bide  here  in  Faery  for  ever- 
inair." 

"  And  grieve  you  at  that,  True  Thomas  1"  smiled  the  win- 
ning elf,  assuming  the  aspect  by  which  she  once  wiled  the 
youth  away  from  Huntley  Bank. 

"  I  grieve  not,"  murmured  he  ;  while  his  eyes  glittered 
with  a  passion  before  which  the  mirth  of  Fairyland  sank 
spiritless  and  tame — "  I  wad  dree  it  ower  and  ower  for  siccan 
joy !— " 

He  sank  kneeling  at  his  lady's  feet,  and  for  a  brief  space, 
thought  of  earth  no  more. 

But  soon  there  came  flitting  near  him  little  Alice,  whisper- 
ing— 

"There's  the  man  with  the  bonnie  yellow  hair  moaning 
out — '  Hame,  hame ;'  and  it  frights  my  butterflies  in  the 
meadow — my  bright  fishes  in  the  stream.  I  can  not  sleep  or 
play  for  listening. — Entreat  our  mistress  to  send  him  '  hame.'  " 

So  True  Thomas  changed  from  elfin  wooing  to  entreaties 
for  his  descendant. 

"  Oh,  the  trouble  you  mortals  give  me  !"  cried  the  Queen 
of  Fairies.  "  There  are  too  many  of  you  here  :  you  will  pro- 
duce quite  a  revolution  in  our  government.  But  for  all  that  I 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  201 

can  not  let  my  handsome  prisoner  go.  He  began  an  evil  fray 
and  fell  into  the  Tweed,  hard  fighting,  he  and  his  adversary 
together.  The  tide  swept  Geordie  Graharae  down  while  ] 
stood  by  and  laughed,  for  I  knew  that  the  other  was  mine." 

"  But  no  for  aye.  It's  lang  syne,  yet  Marion  Learmont's 
*aut  tears  fa'.  She  prays  ;  and  there's  Ane  that  will  hear. 
Send  the  young  man  back  to  earth,  my  gentle  elfin  queen." 

"  Ay,  and  then  give  back  my  fair  changeling,  too  ? — impos- 
sible !  One  or  the  other  I  must  keep.  So  lie  thee  down, 
True  Thomas,  at  my  feet,  and  let  us  harken  to  wee  Alice's 
songs." 

But  wee  Alice,  standing  by,  looked  half-thoughtful  still. 

"  The  man  is  moaning  yet.  He  wearies  me.  Let  him  go 
back  to  earth,  and  keep  me  in  his  stead  always." 

The  Rhymer  smiled,  with  the  glad  sense  of  a  poet  whc 
beholds  that  noblest  sight — a  generous  deed. 

"  My  bairn — the  dear  earth  blude  is  in  ye  yet :  ye  wad  tine 
a',  and  win  your  father  !" 

"  Father,"  repeated  the  child,  carelessly  ;  "  it  is  a  strange 
word — I  know  it  not.  And  what  is  earth  to  me  ?  I  spent  a 
weary  night  last  night,  wandering  there  over  snow  and  brier 
I  would  rather  stay  in  Fairyland." 

"  But  ye  gaed  hame,  my  bairn — harne  to  sweet  Melrose  ? 
ye  sat  by  the  ingle-side  that  was  your  father's  ?  ye  crept  close 
to  your  mither's  knee  ?"  eagerly  cried  Thomas  of  Ercildoun. 

"  It  was  a  gloomy  place,  dark  and  cold.  There  was  a 
woman  there,  doleful  to  see.  She  never  smiled,  or  danced,  or 
sung,  but  only  wept.  It  wearied  rne.  I  would  rather  stay 
in  Fairyland." 

"Then  stay,  my  merry  changeling,"  cried  tl.e  delighted 
queen.  "  Not  an  elf  in  my  kingdom  shall  live  so  blithely  as 
you. — By  all  means  stay." 

"  For  seven  years,  riae  mair,"  said  the  Rhymer,  earnestly. 
"  My  ladye  and  queen,  ye  hae  me  by  my  ain  will,  for  thai 


208  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

I  first  sought  your  luve,  and  not  ye  mine.  Ay,  and  again  1 
were  fu'  fain  to  tine  my  saul  for  your  beauty's  sake.  But  ilk 
ither  mortal  man,  woman,  or  wean,  ye  may  keep  seven  year 
and  nae  mair." 

"  My  True  Thomas,  your  earth-horn  honesty  is  very  in- 
convenient in  Fairyland.  Nevertheless,  away  with  the  burly 
Border  Squire  ;  and  come,  my  bright  Alice,  and  my  lightsome 
eives,  let  us  to  our  sports  again." 

That  night,  when  the  lights  were  out  in  all  Melrose,  and 
the  new  moon  shone  dimly  on  the  snow — when  the  young 
Marion  sat  weeping  by  her  fireless  hearth,  where  even  the 
cricket's  song  had  ceased  in  the  cold  and  silence — there  came 
a  step  on  the  threshold — a  voice  in  the  darkness — a  strong, 
close,  passionate  clasp,  that  she  felt,  yet  saw  not.  But  when 
the  moonlight  glinted  palely  in,  she  knew  the  noble  height, 
the  broad  stalwart  breast,  the  yellow  hair. — It  was  the  dead 
alive — the  lost  found. 

Yet  even  on  that  joyful  night,  when  marvels  hardly  seem- 
ed to  be  such,  since  love  was  ready  unquestioning  to  receive 
all,  many  a  time  Marion  would  droop  tearful  on  his  nrck. 
sighing  out — 

"  Oh,  hus  and  !   oui  bairn,  our  bairn  :'' 


CHAPTER  V 

"CoME  ben,  come  ben,  my  bairnies  a'!"  softly  cried  a  mo 
ther — not  a  young  mother  now,  as  she  stood  by  the  ingle- 
side,  and  threw  on  afresh  fagot,  which  merrily  lighted  up  the 
dusk  of  the  winter  night. 

An  old  woman,  bent  and  withered,  cowered  over  the  blaze, 
and  childishly  watched  it  glittering  between  the  joints  of  hei 
skeleton  fingers. 

11  It's  a  rare  fire,  Marion,"  mumbled  she  :  "  we  hae  na 
had  the  like  o't  for  mony  a  New-year.  Wow !  but  it's  un- 
co fine  !" 

"Aweel,  gudernither,  gin  ye're  content!"  answered  Mis- 
tress Learmont,  half  sorrowfully.  "  Yet,  I'se  warrant  it  has 
been  '  muckle  siller  and  muckle  dule,'  sin  the  day  the  gude- 
man  was  awa'  to  serve  the  queen  in  Edinburgh.  Eh  !  cal- 
lants,  I  fear  me  ye'll  no  see  your  daddy  this  braw  New-year." 

So  said  she  to  the  two  sturdy  bare-legged  laddies  that  came 
from  the  next  room,  toddling  to  the  welcome  fire.  A  third  — 
the  eldest  apparently,  entered  from  without  doors,  bringing  in 
plenty  of  snow  upon  his  shoeless  feet  and  flaxen  hair.  For  he 
too  was  a  "  yellow-haired  laddie,"  a  true  son  of  the  Learmont 
race.  He  was  his  father's  very  image  ;  a  great  fellow,  whose 
bulk  almost  belied  the  round,  innocent  face  of  six  years  old. 
The  other  two  were  fat.  sunburnt,  roly-poly  creatures — twins. 
The  last  born,  a  delicate  looking  child  who  could  just  stand 
alone,  and  whose  sole  speech  was  the  dumb  language  of  blue 
eyes — was  crawling  about  the  floor — making  vain  efforts  to 
get  nearer  to  the  beautiful  blaze. 

They  were  all  boys,  these  later  blessings  sent  to  comfort 


210  ALICE  LEAUMONT 

Marion  Learmont  after  her  woes.     There  never  came  anothei 
daughter. 

Every  human  being  must  change,  more  or  less,  in  seven 
years.  Mistress  Thomas  Learmont  was  a  douce,  matronly 
body  now.  She  could  chatter,  and  she  could  scold,  though 
not  often  ;  for  she  was  of  a  sweet  nature  always.  But  she 
had  to  be  both  father  and  mother  to  her  boys,  in  the  absence 
of  the  gudeman,  whom  chance  had  lifted  to  comparative  pros- 
perity, as  archer  of  the  guard  to  Queen  Mary.  Mere  infants 
as  they  were,  there  was  their  race's  fierce  spirit  in  the  lads,  so 
that  poor  Marion  had  sore  trouble  to  manage  them  at  times. 

They  had  not  been  long  gathered  round  the  fire,  when  a 
domestic  storm  arose. 

"  Hey,  Habbie,  what  are  ye  yaumerin'  for?  Haud  your  ill 
tongue,  Jock !  Wee  Sandy,  come  arid  tell  your  rninnie  what 
ails  ye.  Oh,  laddies,  laddies,  what'll  I  do  wi'  ye  a'?" 

"  Why  dinna  ye  wish  the  '  gude  neighbors'  wad  tak  them, 
and  send  ye  back  your  ae  dochter  ?"  grumbled  the  old  woman. 
"  I'd  gie  a'  these  ill-faured  callants  for  ane  bonnie  lass-bairn." 

"  Ye  didna  think  sae  ance,  gudemither.  Gin  ye  had,  may- 
be my  puir  Alice  had  been  safe  at  your  knee.  Now,  ye'll  gang 
to  your  grave,  and  me  too,  wi'  ne'er  a  dochter  to  close  our  e'en." 

Marion  sighed  bitterly.  Strange  it  seemed,  and  yet  was 
not  strange,  that  amidst  the  cares  and  joys  which  followed 
after,  the  mother  never  forgot  her  first-born.  Year  by  year, 
as  Alice's  birth-night  came  round,  she  grew  thoughtful,  and 
watched  with  anxiety  ;  but  never  again,  in  any  shape,  vision, 
or  sound,  did  the  changeling  appear.  At  last  a  sacredness 
like  unto  death  sti/led  the  pain  of  this  heavy  loss ;  many 
other  children  carne  to  comfort  the  bereaved  mother — yet  the 
wound  was  never  thoroughly  healed.  Constantly,  when  the 
boys  were  to  her  cold  or  rough,  as  boys  will  be,  she  would 
sigh  after  the  one  lost  blessing,  which,  like  all  vanished  joys 
seemed  dearer  than  any  of  the  rest. 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  211 

She  sat  by  the  ingle  ;  and,  rocking  on  hei  knee  the  gentlest 
of  the  tribe,  the  little  year-old  babe,  whose  looks  sometimes 
reminded  her  of  Alice — gave  herself  up  to  sad  thoughts, 
which  on  this  New-year's  eve  seemed  to  come  thicker  and 
faster  than  ordinary. 

"What  for  do  ye  greet,  minnie  ?"  cried  one  after  the  other 
of  the  bairns,  gathering  round  her  ;  for  childhood's  heart  is 
always  tender,  and  the  wildest  boys  are  often  the  most  moved 
at  sight  of  trouble. 

Marion  uncovered  her  eyes,  to  see  Habbie  and  Sandy  with 
great  thunder-drops  of  tears  in  theirs  ;  while  Hugh,  the  bold 
eldest,  stood  in  an  attiude  of  defiance,  as  if  ready  to  challenge 
some  invisible  foe  who  had  made  his  mother  weep.  Even  the 
wee  thing  at  her  lap  lifted  up  his  sweet  looks  in  troubled  won- 
derment, and  nestled  closer  to  her,  bringing  unconscious  comfort. 

"  Ye're  gude  bairns  a',"  said  the  mother  tenderly,  as  she 
caressed  them  by  turns.  "  But,  oh  !  ye  arena  my  Alice — my 
ae  dochter — that  I  will  see  nae  mair!" 

The  children  had  often  heard  of  their  sister  Alice,  and  had 
questioned  about  her  with  childish  awe.  With  them  she  had 
grown  into  a  sort  of  myth,  to  be  thought  of  with  grave  faces, 
and  spoken  of  softly.  They  had  even  set  up  a  kind  of  rude 
service  to  her — children  often  have  the  oddest  instinctive 
notions  of  worship.  Many  a  tiny  bowl  of  milk,  or  rosy-cheek- 
ed apple,  was  left  on  the  "  door-stane,"  or  carried  to  some 
thicket  on  Eildon  Hill,  or  placed  at  four  cross-roads,  in  the 
vague  hope  that  "  Sister  Alice"  would  somehow  come  and 
partake  of  it.  And  as,  of  course,  the  dainty  frequently  van- 
ished, they  would  come  home  feeling  sure  that  "  Sister  Alice" 
had  indeed  received  their  gift. 

Now,  when  they  heard  the  rare  mention  of  her  name,  they 
became  silent  and  grave.  Only  Hugh,  who  being  next  eldest 
to  the  lost  one,  thought  himself  peculiarly  privileged,  tool 
courage  to  say — 


212  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"Mither,  dinna  ye  greet  for  Sister  Alice;  and  I'll  gang  anc 
specr  for  her  ower  the  hale  warld." 

The  mother  shook  her  head. 

"  But  I  will,  mither,"  cried  the  fearless  boy.  "  What  like 
is  she  ? — When  gaed  she  a\va  ?" 

It  was  a  bold  question  ;  for  Marion  had  feared  to  tell  the 
whole  story  of  Alice's  disappearance  to  her  young  children, 
and  had  left  their  speculations  thereon  vague  and  dim.  But, 
somehow,  to-night  her  heart  was  opened  and  her  tongue 
loosed. 

"  Bide  ye  here,  callants,  and  I'll  tell  ye.  What  like  was 
she  ? — she  was  the  sweetest  wee  lady,  jimp  and  srna' — \vi' 
een  like  Willie's  here,  but  oh,  sae  bright  !  She  was  ta'en 
awa  on  this  nicht,  the  nicht  she  was  born,  just  ten  year  sin- 
syne.  She  came  back  ance — twice — ilka  new-year,  and  then 
nae  mair.  Ah,  laddies,  she  came  nae  mair  !" 

"  And  whar  is  she  noo,  mither?" 

"  She's  in  a  braw,  braw  land,  blithe  and  gay,  amang  folk 
that  it's  no  gude  to  speak  o',  my  bairns." 

"  Then  they're  no  gude  ava,"  cried  Hughie,  boldly.  "  May- 
be they'll  gar  her  forget  her  minnie  and  us.  I'll  gang  and 
fecht  them  a'  !" 

Marion  laid  her  finger  on  her  little  son's  lips,  and,  with  the 
other  hand,  was  about  tremblingly  to  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross — but  stopped,  remembering  what  that  good  man  John 
Knox  had  said,  when  last  he  preached  under  the  shadow  of 
Eildon  Tree.  Scarcely  had  she  collected  her  thoughts  and 
resolved  not  to  fear,  when  through  a  pause  in  the  blast  which 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  risen,  shaking  the  whole  dwelling, 
she  heard  a  sound  that  was  neither  wind  nor  storm. 

"  Eh  !  siccan  a  sight !"  shouted  the  daring  Hugh,  who  hau 
rushed  to  the  window.  "  Sax  braw  white  horses  dragging  a 
thing  like  a  wain,  only  bonnier  far  ;  wi:  sic  grand  folk  intilt, 
find  mony  mair  ridin'  ahint  the  lave." 


ALICE  LEARMONT  213 

"  Surely,  it's  a  coach,  that  fine  new  wain  your  ds.ci.die  saw. 
Maybe  the  queen  herself  is  there.  Oh,  bairnies,  rin  and 
hide  !" 

•'  I'll  no  hide,"  said  Hugh.  "  I  wad  like  to  speak  to  the 
queen.  Folk  say  she's  a  bonnie  leddy." 

Without  more  ado,  this  bold  young1  scion  of  the  humbled 
.Learmont  race  unbarred  the  door,  and  walked  out.  Marion 
trembling  followed.  The  coach  and  attendants  had  appar- 
ently driven  away,  for  she  saw  them  not,  though  she  fan- 
cied she  heard  the  sound  of  retreating  wheels.  There  was 
only  a  laint  glare,  like  that  of  invisible  torches,  cast  on 
the  road  ;  and  there  she  saw  her  son,  escorting  a  brill- 
iant little  lady,  who  seemed  neither  quite  a  woman  nor  yet  a 
child. 

One  frenzied  hope  darted  through  the  mother's  heart,  but 
quickly  it  faded  when  Hugh  rushed  in. 

"  Mither  !  here's  a  bonnie  wee  leddy,  sent  frae  the  queen." 

"  Frae  the  queen  ?  wi'  news  o'  your  daddie  ?  Ah,  she's 
kindly  welcome,"  said  the  mother,  but  still  she  drew  back  in 
disappointment. 

Hugh  ran  gallantly  to  the  aid  of  his  lovely  guest,  who  hes- 
itated at  the  threshold. 

"  Come  ben,  my  wee  leddy,"  said  he,  eagerly,  apparently 
not  in  the  least  abashed  either  by  her  fair  presence,  or  by  her 
gold  and  jewels  and  gay  robes. 

"  I  can  not  come  in,  unless  you  lift  me,"  murmured  the 
dainty  creature,  in  tones  like  a  silver  bell. 

Hugh  sturdily  gathered  up  all  the  strength  of  his  childish 
arms  and  carried  her  over  the  door-sill,  into  the  very  middle 
of  the  floor.  There  she  stood — a  beautiful  vision,  making  all 
light  about  her,  as  though  her  very  garments  shone.  But, 
gradually,  the  glitter  paled  off,  and  she  seemed  nothing  more 
than  a  very  small,  elegantly-formed  lady,  magnificently  clad 
but  with  the  face  and  manner  of  a  child. 


214  ALICE  LEAKMONT. 

Despite  its  change,  and  against  the  utter  improbability 
of  the  thing,  the  mother  fancied  she  knew  that  face.  Trern 
blingly  she  advanced  to  the  guest. 

"  Wha  may  ye  be,  my  sweet  wee  leddy  ?" 

"  I  was  not  to  tell  my  name." 

"  Wherefore  cam  ye  ?" 

"  The  queen  sent  rne."  And  whatever  questions  were  put. 
the  only  answer  that  could  be  won  from  the  little  damsel 
was  still  the  same — "  The  queen  sent  me." 

Her  sudden  appearance  and  dazzling  mien  spread  such  an 
admiring  awe  over  the  little  circle  that  they  felt  no  power  tc 
question  her  ;  but  in  their  intercourse  the  little  lady  altogether 
took  the  initiative. 

She  flitted  about  the  house,  peering  into  every  hole  and 
corner  with  most  amusing  pertinacity.  She  played  with  the 
children  and  pulled  them  about,  more  with  curiosity  than  in- 
terest ;  and  at  last  having  fairly  bewildered  them  all  with 
her  beauty,  her  willful  ways,  and  her  perpetual  chatter  in  a 
tongue  which  at  first  seemed  to  them  strange  and  court-like, 
but  gradually  became  intelligible  and  more  like  their  own — 
she  called  for  something  to  eat. 

It  was  supper  time  ;  and  the  mother  had  been  preparing 
bowls  of  porridge,  turning  every  now-and  then,  with  an  in- 
comprehensible yearning,  to  watch  the  movements  of  their 
guest  ;  yet  evermore  repelled  by  something  in  the  fair  creat- 
ure's mien  which  told  that  her  hopes  were  delusions,  that  it 
was  impossible  this  could  be  her  Alice — her  child. 

"  I  want  some  food,"  again  cried  the  visitor,  impatiently. 

Marion  got  ready  the  children's  messes.  She  set  out  five 
instead  of  four  portions,  and  placed  the  first  and  largest  before 
the  stranger. 

"Will  ye  eat  wi'  my  bairns?  ye're  dearly  welcome,"  said 
she,  tenderly. 

The  little  lady  tasted  the  porridge,  and  threw  it  aside  with 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  216 

a  gesture  of  disgust.  "  It  is  not  like  my  food  ;  giv^  me  some 
better." 

It  was  strange,  but  the  words  and  look  went  like  an  arrow 
to  Marion's  heart. 

•'  I  haena  ony  better,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  Gin  ye  come  to 
puir  folk's  door,  ye  maun  live  as  puir  folk  live." 

The  little  damsel  laughed,  more  carelessly  than  angrily  , 
and  with  hungry  looks  suffered  Hugh  to  place  her  bowl  once 
more  within  her  hand. 

"  Bide  a  wee,"  whispered  Marion,  as  she  was  about  to  be- 
gin. "  My  bairns,  say  your  grace  afore  meat,  as  ye  hae  been 
taught." 

One  after  the  other  the  boys — in  this  at  least  well-lessoned 
— folded  their  hands  and  said  a  few  words  of  prayer.  At  the 
sound,  the  new-comer  began  to  tremble  and  grow  pale  ;  at 
'ast  she  set  up  a  loud  cry — 

"  Oh,  it  hurts  me — it  hurts  me  !" 

"  What,  my  sweet  lassie  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  heart — my  heart !"  and  she  began  to  weep. 

Hugh  started  up,  but  the  mother  put  him  back,  and  threw 
her  arms,  brown  and  hard  with  labor,  round  the  silken-robed 
child. 

"  Tell  me,  in  the  great  Name  ye  ken  o',  wha  may  ye  be  ?" 

The  girl  struggled  with  difficulty  to  speak.  "  I'm  Alice — 
Alice  Learmont ;  let  me  go  back  to  whence  1  came." 

"  I  winna  let  ye  gang,  my  ain  bairn,  my  dochter !"  cried 
the  mother,  snatching  her  close,  and  sobbing  over  her. 
"  Come  near,  laddies,  haud  her  fast — fast  !  She's  your  sister 
Alice." 

Amazed,  the  children  clung  round  ;  some  admiring  her 
Bright  clothing,  and  others  half-frightened  at  the  wild  elfin 
beauty  of  her  face,  for  she  was  now  smiling  again. 

But  the  mother  wept  still. 

"Is  it  your  ain  sel',  my  dochter9''  cried  she,  fondling  the 


216  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

pretty  creature  who  nevertheless  every  now  and  then  tried 
to  escape  out  of  her  hands.  "  Eh,  but  ye're  grown  a  winsome 
lassie,  your  hair  sae  shining,  and  your  skin  sae  white  !  I  wad- 
n a  hae  kent  ray  wee  Alice,  my  ain  dear  bairn  !" 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  the  little  maiden  carelessly,  as  she  re- 
arranged her  tossed  hair,  and  smoothed  her  crumpled  gear,  too 
bright  and  gaudy  for  the  touch  of  common  mortal  hands ; 
"  Was  I  ever  in  this  ugly  dark  place  before  ?" 

"Do  you  no  mind  o'  that?"  said  the  mother,  sadly, 
"  Hae  ye  forgotten  your  ain  mither  ?  Ye're  a  braw,  braw 
leddy  now,  but  ye  were  ance  a  puir  bit  bairnie  in  these 
arms." 

Alice  smiled  with  an  air  of  indifference,  and  turned  from 
the  worn  and  pensive  looking  mother  to  the  children,  who, 
young,  rosy,  and  fair,  seemed  more  like  herself  and  her  elfin 
companions. 

"  Are  these  my  brothers,  and  will  they  play  with  me,  as 
the  little  fairy-children  do  in  the  land  where  I  live  ?" 

"  Eh,  whar  is  that  land  ?"  asked  bold  Hugh,  the  first  who 
had  dared  to  address  their  magnificent  new  sister. 

"  I  know  not,  but  it  must  be  a  long  way  off,  for  it's  a 
country  so  much  prettier  than  this."  And  she  went  peering 
about  into  dark  and  dusty  corners,  arid  curled  her  sweet  lips 
in  a  half-scornful  indifference  at  every  thing  she  saw. 

"  Do  you  always  live  here  ?"  said  Alice,  when  at  last  she 
and  the  rest  had  become  more  sociable ;  "  Where  are  your 
golden  halls,  and  your  silver  dining  tables,  and  your  sweet 
music  ?  And  why  don't  you  laugh  and  dance — in  this  way  ?" 

Immediately  she  began  to  float  and  bound,  with  an  air  so 
ravishingly  graceful  and  joyous  that  she  seemed  like  a  creature 
of  light  compared  with  the  other  children,  who  watched  her 
in  dumb  wonder,  Hugh  especially. 

"  Is  it  thus  ye  live  in  your  land]  Eh,  but  I  never  see'd 
sic  a  bonnie  ploy  !" 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  217 

"  And  how  do  you  amuse  yourself?"  asked  Alice,  with  dig- 
nified condescension. 

"  When  it's  simmer,  1  rin  about  the  braes,  or  amang  the 
corn-rigs  wi'  the  shearers  ;  i'  the  mirk  winter  days  I  haud 
the  pleugh  ;  and  then  a'  the  spring-time  I  gang  wi'  the  bit 
lammies  on  the  hill.  I'll  show  ye  thae  lammies,  gin  ye'll  bide 
wi'  us,  Sister  Alice." 

She  seemed  amused  and  pleased,  and  her  sweet  winning 
looks  stole  the  very  heart  of  the  affectionate  boy.  He  went 
boldly  to  his  sister,  kissed  her  mouth,  and  hugged  her  close, 
saying,  "  I'm  unco  glad  ye're  come,  Sister  Alice  ;  but  gin  ye 
hadna  come  o'  your  ain  will,  I  wad  hae  fought  for  ye  and 
brought  ye  hame.  Ye  sail  never  gang  awa  mair." 

"Never  gang  awa  mair  ?"  cried  Alice,  mimicking  him,  as 
she  stole  slily  out  of  his  embrace,  and  once  more  began  danc- 
ing about  the  floor. 

The  children  forgot  their  supper  in  watching  her,  half  with 
*hy  wonder,  half  with  delight  ;  so  graceful,  so  blithe  was  she, 
so  utterly  free  from  thought  or  care.  But  the  neglected 
mother  sat  in  a  corner  apart  and  mourned. 

More  than  once  she  came  to  her  child,  arid  with  piteo.us 
tenderness  looked  into  those  blue  eyes  whose  brightness  was 
never  shadowed  by  one  cloud  of  regret,  or  emotion,  or  love. 

"  Are  ye  no  my  Alice  ?"  she  would  say,  imploringly  ;  "  and 
haena  ye  ae  kiss  for  your  ain  mither  that  bore  ye  ?  Ah,  las- 
sie !  what  wad  I  gie  for  ane  wee  wordie,  just  '  Mither,' — 
naething  mair." 

Alice  shook  her  head,  and  laughed.  "  It's  a  new  word ;  1 
don't  understand  it."  And  then  she  went  back  to  her  sports 
among  her  brothers. 

Merry  sports  they  were,  and  with  much  wonderment  she 
sometimes  paused  to  listen  to  Hugh's  harangues,  very  sensi- 
ble for  his  years. 

:t  Ye're  our  ae  sister,  and  wo  aye  liked  yc  weel,  though  we 
K  ' 


218  ALICE  LEARMONT 

never  saw  ye.  Why  did  ye  no  come  hame  ?  Mither  used 
to  greet  for  ye  ;  she  aye  loed  ye  aboon  the  lave." 

Alice  turned  a  curious  glance  to  her  mother.  "  What  does 
loving  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

Hughie  was  puzzled.  At  last  he  tried  a  practical  illustra- 
tion. He  wrapped  his  arms  round  his  fairy-like  sister,  and 
kissed  her  with  childish  fondness,  which  she  did  not  repulse, 
though  she  took  it  coldly  and  wonderingly. 

"  It  means  that"  said  he,  "  an'  it  means  that  I'll  tak  tent 
o'  ye,  and  I'll  carry  ye  when  ye're  wearied,  and  treat  ye  weel. 
and  no  beat  ye — as  I  beat  Habbie  and  Sandy  ;  I'm  your  ain 
brither,  and  I  loe  ye,  Alice  dear  !" 

Alice  paused  in  her  frolics,  and  putting  her  tiny  hand  among 
Hugh's  curls,  looked  as  if  her  eyes  were  drinking  in  from  his 
some  strange  new  lesson  of  human  affection.  But,  turning, 
she  saw  in  a  tiny  mirror  her  own  fair  image  ;  suddenly  burst- 
ing away,  she  danced  up  to  it,  and  became  absorbed  by  pleas- 
ure at  the  sight  of  her  glittering  frock  and  her  silver  shoes. 

The  night  wore  on ;  the  old  grandmother  had  gone  to  her 
rest  long  ago,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  strange  visitant  whc 
had  so  fascinated  the  children.  But  at  length  even  they  grew 
weary ;  while  the  little  elfin  maiden  still  frolicked,  her  broth- 
ers dropped  away  one  after  the  other — and  came,  in  the  wea- 
ried, peevish  mood  that  very  young  children  have,  to  take 
shelter  by  their  mother's  side.  Mistress  Learmont  soothed 
them,  and  folded  her  arms  around  them,  though  in  the  troub- 
led bewilderment  of  her  own  mind  she  did  not  attempt  to 
put  them  to  bed.  Whatever  she  did,  or  wherever  she  moved, 
her  eyes  never  quitted  her  beloved  first-born,  whom  now  she 
left  to  her  own  devices,  and  tried  to  caress  no  more. 

Hugh  was  the  last  to  leave  his  sister,  but  even  he  came  to 
the  ingle-side  at  length,  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  looking  dull 
ftnd  melancholy. 

"  She's  no  like  a  real  lassie.     She's  unco'  fair  and  unco' 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  2  IS 

gleg,  but  she'll  no  be  our  ain  sister,"  said  he  disconsolately, 
as  he  gathered  himself  up  on  the  hearth,  and  laid  his  head 
wearily  on  his  mother's  knee.  The  twin-laddies  were  already 
dropping  to  sleep  beside  her,  and  wee  Willie  had  nestled  close 
into  her  bosom.  Marion  kissed  them  all  round,  tenderly  and 
with  tears. 

While  she  did  so,  she  was  aware  of  the  approach  of  her 
eldest  child,  who  glided  softly  into  the  circle.  Alice's  eyes 
were  downcast,  and  there  was  a  strange  sadness  in  her  as 
pect. 

''•Mother!"  she  said,  and  Marion  could  have  shrieked 
with  joy  at  the  word.  "  Have  ye  got  never  a  kiss  for  me  ?" 

"  My  bairn  !  my  bairn  !"  she  cried,  but  could  not  rise  for 
the  other  sleeping  children  that  clung  round  her.  She  stretch- 
ed out  her  hand  and  drew  her  daughter  into  the  circle.  Slow- 
ly, neither  with  impulse  nor  with  hesitation,  Alice  came. 
Her  bright  face  was  rather  grave,  and  there  was  a  softer 
expression  in  her  sparkling  eyes.  She  let  her  mother  fold 
her  close  to  her  breast ;  and  lay  there  quietly,  though  with- 
out any  caresses. 

But  for  the  mother  herself,  her  joy  was  unutterable  and 
without  bounds.  It  forced  itself  out  in  sobs  and  tears,  which 
fell  on  the  neck  of  the  fairy  child.  Alice  recoiled. 

"  I  do  not  like  that ;  the  tears  wet  me.  Why  do  you 
cry  ]" 

"  For  joy,  my  dochter.  But  I  winna  do't  gin  it  grieves 
ye."  And  Marion  tried  to  smile  and  be  merry,  though  her 
heart  was  so  full  that  the  mirth  seemed  but  an  idle  show. 

Alice  leaned  on  her  breast  with  a  quiet  contented  look — a 
look  subdued  almost  into  earthliness — until  the  night  wore  on, 
and  the  light  on  the  hearth  faded.  Then  she  drew  herself 
away  restlessly. 

:t  It's  very  dark  and  dull,  and  I'm  cold,  mother." 

"Come  closer  and  I'll  warm  ye,  my  bairn;   I  hae  diir* 


220  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

that,  rnony  a  nicht,  to  thae  wee  lads  your  brithers,  that  were 
bom  amid  poortith,  and  cauld,  and  care." 

A]ice  looked  frightened,  and  shivered  more  and  more.  "Is 
this  what  they  call  living  on  earth,  mother  ?  If  I  had  lived 
here  among  ye,  would  I  have  been  hungry,  and  cold,  and 
dressed  in  ugly  clothes  like  you  and  tnv  brothers  there?" 

"I  fear  me,  it  wad  hae  been  and  will  be,  my  Alice!" 
sighed  the  mother.  "  But  we'll  tend  ye  close,  and  loe  ye  sae 
dear— oh  sae  dear  !" 

In  vague  fear,  the  poor  woman  strained  her  daughter  to 
her  breast.  Her  coarse  garments  frayed  the  tender  skin,  her 
look  and  speech  were  almost  rough  in  their  passionate  intens- 
ity. Yet  the  deep  love  in  her  eyes  would  to  one  who  could 
feel  and  respond  to  it,  have  atoned  for  and  sublimated  all. 
But  such  a  common-place,  every-day  thing  as  love,  was  quite 
unknown  in  Fairyland. 

Alice,  half- frightened,  half-annoyed,  crept  a  little  way  far- 
ther from  her  mother.  She  had  hardly  done  so,  when  a  cock 
crowing  loudly  from  the  farm  broke  upon  the  night's  silence. 
The  children  were  all  asleep  ;  Marion  herself,  despite  hei 
struggles  against  it,  felt  herself  overpowered  as  by  a  ha- 
zy dream.  Just  as  the  cock  crew,  she  heard  clearly,  roll- 
ing nearer  and  nearer,  the  sound  of  wheels  which  had  her- 
alded her  daughter's  coming.  *  She  knew  instinctively  that 
it  was  the  signal  for  Alice's  being  snatched  from  her  once 
more. 

She  could  not  cry  out  or  speak  ;  her  tongue  seemed  bound. 
She  only  turned  her  imploring  eyes  to  the  little  elfin-maiden, 
and  saw  with  agony  unutterable  that  the  warning,  to  her  so 
dreadful,  had  brightened  her  daughter's  face  with  joy. 

"  They-' re  coming  !  I  will  soon  be  back  in  my  merry  home. 
Fare  you  well,  good  mother,"  cheerfully  cried  Alice,  as  the 
wheels  stopped,  and  a  brilliant  light  glimmered  through  the 
black  window  and  under  the  chinks  of  the  crazy  door  ''  Fars 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  221 

you  well,"  she  repeated,  as  with  a  sudden  spring  she  bounded 
out  of  her  mother's  desperate  hold. 

Marion's  tongue  was  loosed  ;  she  uttered  a  shriek  like  that 
we  sometimes  utter  in  dreams.  To  herself  it  seemed  the  very 
rending  of  her  soul ;  but  it  was  in  reality  a  mere  sigh,  not 
loud  enough  to  wake  the  infant  who  slumbered  on  her  knees. 

She  felt  the  little  maiden  turn  and  pat  her  cheek  for  a 
moment,  escaping  quickly  and  softly,  like  a  bird  out  of  the 
hand. 

"  Don't  cry,  mother  ;  it  makes  you  look  not  pretty,  and  it 
hurts  me.  But  I  can't  stay  here  ;  I  must  go  back  to  my 
beautiful  home." 

There  was  a  light  tap  at  the  door,  which  was  merely  latch- 
ed. Now  Marion  knew  that  the  fairies  could  only  enter 
through  a  door  left  open,  or  opened  unto  them.  She  tried  to 
rise,  but  could  not.  Then  she  made  frantic  signs  to  Alice  to 
bolt  and  bar  the  entrance,  but  in  vain. 

Another  tap  came  ;  for  the  daughter  was  pausing  to  look  in 
mingled  wonder  and  doubt  on  the  agonized  countenance  of 
her  mother.  A  third  summons — and  then,  with  her  own 
hands,  the  changeling  opened  the  door. 

A  flood  of  light — a  multitude  of  airy  beings  filling  the 
gloomy  house,  and  Alice  herself,  blithe  and  beautiful  as  any, 
flitting  among  them  all ! 

It  was  but  for  a  moment ; — then  the  vision  began  to  fade, 
and  the  mother  knew  that  her  child  was  departed.  With  a 
vehement  cry  she  called  upon  the  one  Name  which  all  beings, 
of  whatever  race,  must  obey. 

The  fairy-train  paused,  and  Alice  was  left  standing  on  the 
threshold,  her  eyes  wandering  between  the  lowly  home  within, 
and  the  brilliant  pageant  without. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  ]"  she  said.  "Must  I  stay 
and  live  here  in  this  house  ?  It  is  so  dark,  so  dreary.  Yet 
my  mother — " 


222  ALICE   LEARMONT. 

She  stood  irresolute,  looking  at  the  little  group  among 
whom  for  one  hour  she  had  lain,  encircled  by  caresses,  and 
learning  for  the  first  time  that  there  was  a  sweeter  thing  even 
than  the  perpetual  pleasures  of  elfin-land.  A  little,  too,  she 
Deemed  moved  by  the  despair  with  which  the  dumb,  spell- 
bound mother  stretched  out  imploring  hands. 

"Choose,  Alice,  choose,"  chanted  the  elves  from  without, 
as  the  glitter  of  their  invisible  torches  flashed  upon  her,  light- 
ing up  her  fair  countenance  and  her  amber  hair. 

She  turned  ;  their  elfin  glamour  was  cast  over  her,  and 
every  rising  emotion  of  earth  and  earthly  tenderness  was 
stilled. 

"Farewell !"  she  cried  ;  and  without  casting  one  more  look 
at.  the  dark  cottage — the  little  brothers  who  lay  sleeping 
where  they  had  played  with  her — the  poor  mother,  whose  dumb 
anguish  was  all  in  vain — Alice  passed  from  the  threshold  and 
disappeared, 


CHAITER  VI. 

ALL  days  and  all  years  are  alike  in  Fairyland.  One  aftei 
the  other  they  glide,  like  waves  in  a  river  of  which  the  cur- 
rent never  changes.  And  though  there  are  among  these 
lightsome  heings  elves  young  and  old,  save  that  the  infirmi- 
ties of  age  are  unknown ;  though  as  veracious  chroniclers  have 
asserted,  they  continually  marry  and  replenish  their  commu- 
nity with  elfin  babes — still  their  existence  flows  on  in  a  per- 
petual monotony;  and  their  unreal  pleasures  remain  always 
the  same. 

Four  winters  had  the  snow  gathered  and  melted  on  the 
crest  of  Eildon  Hill,  since  Alice  vanished  from  her  mother's 
cottage,  on  that  last  New-year's  rnorn.  But  summers  and 
winters  make  no  count  in  Elfland  ;  and  it  seemed  to  the 
changeling  as  if  she  had  only  been  gone  four  days. 

No  extraneous  power  can  change  the  eternal  laws  of  nature  , 
and,  despite  the  will  of  the  Queen  of  Fairies,  the  little  stolen 
mortal  had  grown  up  to  be  a  maiden  of  fourteen  years.  She 
was  still  tiny  enough  for  an  earthly  damsel ;  but  she  walked 
the  soft  sward  of  Fairyland,  casting  a  gigantic  shadow  which 
quite  alarmed  her  elfin  mates.  Even  the  queen  herself,  who 
bore  the  stamp  of  royalty  as  the  tallest  of  her  race,  and  who 
in  past  times  had  actually  prided  herself  on  being  able,  stand- 
ing tiptoe,  to  gird  with  her  emerald  girdle  her  earthly  love, 
the  Knight  of  Ercildoun— even  the  queen  began  to  be 
indignant  that  her  young  handmaiden  was  an  inch  or  two 
above  herself,  and  was  growing,  she  strongly  suspected,  very 
uearly  as  fair. 

"  Look  at  her,  my  True  Thomas,"  her  majesty  observed 


224  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

(for  with  true  royal  caprice,  or  from  scarcity  of  stolen  mortals 
she  had  of  late  gone  back  to  her  old  love) — "  Look  how  mun- 
dane she  is,  far  too  tall  and  round  ;  and  her  step  is  so  heavy, 
it  would  crush  half-a-dozen  of  my  pet  grasshoppers.  Nay,  she 
has  even  got  a  most  unpleasant  earthly  gloom  on  her  face ; 
as  doleful  as  yourself,  my  knight,  when  you  begin  to  drean; 
of  the  old  tower  where  the  owls  hoot,  and  the  corbie  builds." 

True  Thomas  sighed. 

"  Would  you  go  back  to  earth  again  ?"  mocked  the  queen. 
in  her  pretty  willful  way  ;  "  My  sister  majesty  on  the  throne 
of  Scotland  is  as  fair,  as  love-winning,  and — so  you  would  say 
—as  fatal  in  her  love  as  myself.  "  Oh,  it  was  a  bonnie 
blaze  that  one  night  scared  my  elves  who  dwell  underneath 
the  Calton  Hill !  and  truly  there  is  no  moonlight  riding  over 
the  plain  of  Langsyde  for  the  ugly  corpses  that  lie  bleach- 
ing there !  Eh,  would  you  go  back  to  earth,  my  gallant 
Thomas?" 

The  Rhymer's  head  fell  on  his  breast.  "  Forme,"  said  he, 
mournfully ;  "for  me  there  is  nae  return.  And  I  wadua  see 
the  black,  black  nicht  that's  fa'ing,  and  maun  fa',  ower  my 
dear  Scotland.  But  it's  after  mirkest  nicht  that  glints  the 
dawn. — I  see't,  I  see't  !  Years  on  years  maun  pass,  and  ne'ei 
a  queen's  foot  sail  fa'  on  Scottish  heather.  And  then  ane 
comes — a  Leddy  wi'  saft  sma'  tread  ;  wearing  a  marriage- 
ring  that's  dearer  than  her  crown;  hearing  bairns'  voices  at 
hame,  sweeter  than  a'  the  clavers  o'  daft  crowds. — Ah,  she's 
the  Queen  for  bonnie  Scotland  !" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  True  Thomas,"  said  her  Majesty, 
rather  unceremoniously  ;  "  no  one  here  ever  thinks  of  to-mor- 
row ;  it  is  only  you  stupid  mortals  who  bring  the  unpleasant 
word  'future'  into  Fairyland.  Look,  as  I  said  before,  at  your 
descendant  there  ;  see  her  eyes,  so  clouded  and  grave  ;  can  it 
be  that  despite  my  care  the  old  Learmont  leaven  has  reached 
her  blithe  spirit  ?" 


ALICE  LEA11MONT.  K2« 

The  Rhymer  looked.  Alice  was  walking  slowly  down  the 
river-side,  the  same  river  which  meandered  through  Fairy- 
land, rising  and  disappearing,  how  or  whither  none  could 
trace.  She  had  neared  the  place  where  the  water  lilies  grew 
thick,  and  where  they  had  once  twined  their  long  stems  round 
the  form  of  the  mortal  captive  who  lay  then*  three  years 
bound,  afar  from  sweet  Melrose.  Some  recollection  seemed 
to  possess  the  changeling,  for  she  staid  in  the  same  spot 
where  she  had  then  staid  to  look  at  her  father.  Sitting 
down  by  the  hank,  she  played  with  the  water  plants  and  dip- 
ped her  fingers  in  the  stream.  It  went  on  singing  over  the 
pebbles  with  a  melancholy  monotonous  flow,  just  like  earthly 
rivers.  Indeed,  it  seemed  the  only  earthly  sound  in  Fairyland 

Alice  listened,  and  slowly  there  came  a  deep  strange  pen 
siveness  to  her  eyes. 

"  What  hear  ye,  Alice  ?"  said  Thomas  of  Ercildoun,  com- 
ing nearer ; — for  her  volatile  majesty  of  Elfland  had  suddenly 
descried  a  lovely  specimen  of  entomology  sailing  down  the 
river-side,  and  had  summoned  all  her  court  on  a  dragon-fly 
hunt  ;  leaving  her  mortal  lover  to  dream  on  the  green  bank 
alone.  "  Why  barken  ye  to  the  stream  wi'  sic  a  waefu' 
heart  ?" 

Alice  looked  up.  "  My  heart !  is  it  so  ?  is  this  weight  on 
my  heart  what  my  mother  called  care  ? — Then,  I  did  net 
understand  the  word  !"  said  she,  musingly. 

"  It  is  even  sae.     Were  ye  thinking  o'  your  mither  ?" 

"  I  do  that  sometimes,  now,  when  I  get  dull  and  weary. 
It  is  so  weary  to  be  always  gay — and  then  I  was  born  on 
earth,  and  not  in  Fairyland." 

So  said  she,  very  gently,  and  with  an  altered  tone  of  wo- 
manly thoughtfulness.  Either  the  fairies'  power  had  grown 
weaker,  or  the  mother's  prayers  stronger  ;  but  thsre  was  cer 
tainly  a  change  coming  over  the  child.  Having  spoken,  she 
again  bent  her  head  to  the  water,  listening. 

K* 


228  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"  What  hear  ye  ?"  repeated  Thomas,  eagerly. 

"  I  hear  the  murmur  of  the  river,  and  other  sounds  that  it 
brings  with  it,  seemingly  from  a  long  way." 

"  And  thae  sounds  are  unlike  aught  here  1  There's  weep- 
ing and  wailing,  and  saft  sighs,  and  tears  that  fa'  sweeter 
than  kisses  ?  I  ken  them  weel ;  it's  the  sounds  of  earth  that 
float  alang  wi'  the  earth-risen  stream,"  cried  the  Rhymer,  as 
he  stooped  and  laved  his  hands  arid  brow.  "  Oh,  bonnie 
river,  come  ye  frae  the  Tweed  ;  or  frae  my  ain  bright  Leader, 
that  rins  by  Ercildoun  1  Oh,  sweet  water  !  whar  did  ye 
spring,  and  whither  do  ye  flow]" 

His  heart  seemed  bursting  with  those  words,  but  very  soon  his 
aspect  grew  calm,  and  he  again  asked  Alice  what  she  heard. 

"  I  can  hear  naething  of  earth  mysel,"  he  said  ;  "  never, 
sin'  the  day  I  shut  my  ear  to  ilka  voice  but  that  whilk  led 
astray.  But  ye  were  stown  awa,  a  puir  bairn  that  kent  nor 
gude  nor  ill.  Listen,  Alice,  and  tell  me." 

"  I  hear  great  lamenting  along  the  river-brink — screams 
of  children  in  terror — and  people  shouting  about  some  one 
being  drowned.  And  now  there's  a  choking  cry — ah  !  I  know 
who  that  is  !  It's  Hughie,  my  bonnie  brother,  so  kind  and  so 
brave  !  I  must  run — I  must  run  !" 

With  an  impulse,  quite  strange  and  unaccountable  in  Fairy- 
land, the  earth-born  maiden  started  off  and  flew  along  toward 
the  source  of  the  river  ;  skimming  almost  like  a  bird  over 
bush  and  brake,  through  green  bank  and  morass,  wherever 
the  windings  of  the  stream  led.  She  thought  not  of  her  com- 
panion ;  she  never  looked  behind  ;  on  she  went,  guided  by  the 
sound  which  she  seemed  still  to  hear — the  gasping  sobs  of  a 
drowning  child. 

As  Alice  proceeded,  the  face  of  the  country  changed.  The 
sunny  plains  of  Elfland  became  grim  rocks,  through  which 
the  river  flowed  with  angry  bursts  and  rnoans.  At  last  the 
thin  rift  of  blue  overhead  altogether  vanished  ;  she  found  her« 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  227 

self  in  a  cavern  hung  with  oozy  water-plants,  and  ruggec 
with  basaltic  fragments. 

Alice  knew  she  had  passed  from  the  domain  of  the  merry 
earth-elves  to  the  gloomy  abode  of  the  Kelpie,  the  water-de- 
mon, whose  pleasures  were  only  in  the  working  of  ill.  .  There 
he  sat,  the  grim  creature — not  beautiful,  like  the  Queen  of 
Fairies  and  her  train — but  foul  and  'ugly  to  behold.  His  face 
and  brawny  shoulders  were  those  of  an  old  man,  the  gray 
wild  hair  drooping  down  like  withered  sedge ;  but  underneath, 
half  in  arid  half  out  of  the  water,  his  form  was  like  that  of  a 
huge  river-horse.  He  had  a  harp  of  reeds  beside  him,  upon 
which  he  played  sweet  music  to  allure  his  prey  ;  and  ever 
amidst  his  playing,  he  reared,  snorted,  and  plunged,  hoarsely 
laughing  between,  in  a  tone  mockingly  human. 

So  uncouth  and  fearsome  a  creature  was  he,  that  the  child 
would  have  crept  away  in  terror,  but  that  far  hid  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  cave,  floating  hither  and  thither  upon  the  dark 
waters,  she  saw  the  glitter  of  yellow  hair.  It  looked  like  the 
form  of  a  drowned  boy  swaying  to  and  fro  on  the  surface. 

A  strange  emotion  possessed  the  changeling-maiden  ; — a 
feeling  stronger  than  the  desire  for  pleasure,  or  mirth,  or  sport 
— an  emotion  that  drew  her  out  of  herself  and  toward  another. 
The  one  night  in  her  mother's  cottage  flashed  upon  her  like  a 
dream,  not  of  weariness,  but  of  sweetness.  She  hardly  knew 
what  she  was  doing,  but  somehow  she  murmured  all  the  home- 
names,  scarcely  noticed  at  the  time.  While  so  doing,  the 
waves  stirred  the  face  of  the  drowned  child  and  turned  it 
toward  her.  It  was  that  of  the  eldest  and  most  loving  of  her 
brothers — Hugh  ! 

He  lay,  his  bonnie  face  pale,  but  composed  and  sweet  as  if 
safely  pillowed  at  home,  instead  of  being  tossed  on  those  hun- 
gry waves.  His  fingers  still  tightly  grasped  his  blue  bonnet 
and  his  shepherd's  staff,  as  though  it  were  in  fording  some  CUP 
rent  that  the  Kelpie  had  overtaken  him.  He  had  grown  intr 


•528  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

a  sturdy  boy,  but  the  frank  beauty  of  his  mien  was  the  same 
as  when  Alice  had  twisted  her  fingers  in  his  curls,  and  looked 
for  the  first  time  in  a  brother's  face. 

She  remembered  it  all — and  how  in  the  merry  games  of 
Fairyland  she  had  often  paused  and  wished  for  Huirhic  to 
come  arid  say  the  sweet  words — never  said  or  thought  of  by 
the  lightsome  elfin  race,  "  I  love  you."  She  longed  to  reach 
him,  and  hear  them  over  again. 

"  Hughie,  brother,"  she  whispered  over  the  waves,  but  in 
vain  :  she  dared  not  come  nearer  the  fierce  Kelpie,  who  sat 
and  played  in  dignified  gravity,  never  looking  toward  the  mor- 
tal who  was  invading  his  domains.  And  farther — farther 
every  minute,  the  river  was  drifting  the  helpless  form  of  the 
drowned  boy. 

Alice  paused  a  moment ;  her  bare  feet  trembled  in  the  cold 
water,  and  among  the  sharp  rocks  ,  then,  acting  on  an  impulse 
unknown  before,  she  waded  in — deeper — deeper,  until  her  foot- 
ing slid  from  her.  She  had  never  heard  of  death  ;  yet  as  she 
felt  her  breath  failing,  some  strange  formless  horror  .seemed  to 
encompass  her.  Nevertheless,  she  tried  to  grasp  the  yellow 
hair,  and  to  cling  closer  to  her  brother  ;  as  if,  whatever  hap- 
pened, she  would  be  safer  and  better  thus.  Then  all  sensa- 
tion ceased. 

She  woke  on  the  greensward  of  Fairyland,  with  Hughie 
tightly  clasped  in  her  arms,  and  over  them  bending  the  grave 
countenance  of  Thomas  of  Ercildoun. 

The  seer  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  children  ; 
but  Alice  noticed  only  Hughie,  who  still  lay  as  if  asleep. 

"  Oh  !  wake  him,  wake  him,"  she  cried  :  and  a  new  tone  of 
human  pain  thrilled  through  her  smooth  accents  of  Fairyland. 

"  He'll  waken  soon,  and  then  he  must  gang  far,  far  awa, 
or  e'er  'tis  morning  on  earth,  and  the  queen  comes  hame  tc 
Fairyland.  Haste  ye,  Alice ;  kiss  him  ance,  tvvico,  and  thcr 
bid  hrim  farewell 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  22£ 

"1  will  not  let  hin?.  go ;  I  want  to  keep  him  to  play  with — 
my  own,  own  brother  !" 

"  An'  ye  wad  keep  him — a  fair  christened  wean,  in  this  ill 
place,  while  his  mithcr  grieves  the  Icelang  day  ?  Ye  wad  ga? 
him  forget  his  hame,  arid  a'  that's  gude,  to  bide  here  in  Elf- 
land  ?  And  when  the  seventh  year  comes  roun',  and  they 
pay  the  teind  to  hell — he's  sae  fat  and  fair,  and  weel-liking  • 
oh  !  wae's  me  for  the  lad  !" 

This  and  more  the  Rhymer  urged  ;  but  little  did  Alice 
heed,  or  at  least  seem  to  heed.  She  smiled  and  laughed  in 
wild  elfin  pleasure,  as  slowly  Hughie  opened  his  eyes.  But 
not  a  word  he  said,  except  one  bitter  cry — "  Hame — hame — 
I  maun  gae  hame." 

Alice  led  him  every  where,  and  showed  him  the  fair  land- 
scapes and  the  banquet  hall — but  he  took  no  pleasure  therein. 

"  Oh,  let's  gae  hame,"  he  said  perpetually.  "  It's  a  br-'v 
land,  but  it's  no  like  hame.  Sister  Alice,  I  daurna  bide  wi'  ye.  ' 

His  sister  listened,  and  her  bright  face  was  troubled  with 
thought.  "  Must  ye  go,  Hughie  ?"  she  said,  now  for  the  first 
time  learning  how  sweet  it  was  to  share  a  pleasure  that  did 
not  centre  in  herself  alone  ;  learning,  too,  a  little  of  that  pain 
of  parting,  without  which  the  happiness  of  affection  were  as 
unreal  as  light  without  shadow. 

"  Must  ye  go  ?"  she  repeated,  sadly.  As  she  spoke,  it  was 
already  dawn  in  the  world,  and  the  ringing  of  the  fairy 
bridles  was  heard  afar,  beyond  the  golden  gates  of  Elfland. 

Alice  grasped  her  brother — who  now  or  never  must  be 
saved  to  return  to  earth.  "  You  will  not  stay  then,  Hughie 
dear?  Ah  well !  it's  best  not.  They're  oftentimes  weari- 
some— all  the  feastings,  and  dances,  and  pleasures.  Go  back 
to  our  mother,  and  bid  her  remember  me." 

Half  sadJy  the  little  maiden  spoke  ;  but  there  was  no  time 
to  talk  more — for  flashing  through  the  golden  gates  came  the 
fairy  cavalcade. 


230  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"  We  must  be  gone,"  said  Alice.  "  I  know  the  earthward 
way  ;"  and  wrapping  her  arms  round  her  young  brother,  she 
drew  him  into  a  brake  of  fern.  She  gathered  a  bunch  of 
fern-seed,  which,  plucked  on  earth  at  St.  John's  Eve  will 
make  the  wearer  invisible — and  set  it.  in  Hughie's  bonnet. 

Then  she  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  secretly 
toward  the  entrance  of  Fairyland.  As  they  went  out,  they 
saw,  standing  behind  them  with  sad  eyes,  him  who  never 
might  pass  those  gates  to  his  beloved  country — Thomas  the 
Rhymer  of  Ercildoun. 

"  Is  it  far  we  hae  to  gang  ?  and  will  ye  gang  wi'  me/ 
Sister  Alice  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  Ay,"  said  Alice  ;  "  as  far  as  may  be." 

So  these  children  took  together  their  strange  journey.  It 
was  all  amidst  darkness  ;  there  was  neither  sun  nor  moon. 
Sometimes  a  pale,  weird-like  auroral  light  glimmered  above 
them,  showing  each  the  other's  face,  dim  and  wan.  At  other 
times  they  went  through  mirk  ways,  seeing  nothing,  but  hear- 
ing awful  sounds  like  forests  of  trees  soughing  wildly,  or 
waterfalls  dashing,  or  seas  roaring,  close  by.  Again,  they 
seemed  to  wade  through  deep  rivers  as  red  as  blood  ;  and 
then  their  feet  slid  along  great  masses  of  ice,  or  sank  in  black 
morasses.  Alice  always  led  the  way,  silent,  but  holding  fast 
her  brother's  hand. 

Hughie  went  on,  not  in  his  usual  daring  mood,  but  heavily 
like  a  boy  in  a  dream.  At  times  his  feet  lagged  on  the  toil- 
some road,  and  he  began  to  moan  ;  then  Alice  would  pause, 
and  try  to  teach  herself  those  things  which  women  of  earth 
learn  instinctively,  and  have  to  practice  all  their  life — how  tc 
bear  with  and  to  comfort  the  afflicted.  It  was  a  new  lesson, 
but  very  sweet. 

On  they  went,  over  river  and  plain,  mountain  and  valley, 
until  at  last  they  came  to  a  cavern  ending  in  a  great  doorway 
fashioned  of  green  stone.  Through  its  crevices  glided  a  pale 


ALICE  LEARMOiNT.  231 

ray,  like  daylight,  or  like  moonlight  upon  snow.  By  this 
glimmer  they  saw  indistinctly  the  latter  part  of  the  way  they 
had  come  ;  a  steep  path,  rising,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  depths 
of  the  earth.  Between  them  and  the  light  were  these  gigan- 
tic doors. 

Hughie  sat  down  before  them,  arid  wept :  '•'  Ah,  Sister 
Alice,  I  will  never  reach  hame  !  I'll  lay  me  doun  and  dee/' 

But  Alice  showed  him  a  cranny  in  the  stone,  through 
which  came  a  broad  beam  of  light — and  bade  him  peep 
through. 

"  Tell  me,  what  see  ye,  Hughie  dear  1" 

"  I  see  a  long,  white  snaw  drift,  braid  and  still.  We're  on 
a  hill-tap,  and  the  morn's  blinking  out  i'  the  east,  and  the 
cocks  are  era  wing  afar.  There's  the  Abbey  o'  Mel  rose  !  Oh, 
Sister  Alice,  we're  close  at  hame  !" 

He  set  up  a  shout  of  joy  which  made  the  black  vault  ring  ' 
and  stretching  his  hand  through  the  tiny  hole,  gathered  some 
of  the  snow — the  blessed  snow  which  lay  upon  earthly 
plains!  arid  put  it  to  his  parched  lips.  For  he  was  weary 
and  worn,  poor  child  ;  while  Alice  looked  as  fresh  and  fair  as 
she  had  done  in  the  haunts  of  Fairyland.  But  while  he 
smiled,  she  sighed. 

"  Yes,  you  will  be  soon  at  home,  Hughie.  Are  you  glad 
to  go?" 

"  Ay,  unco  glad  !  I'll  rin  doun  the  hill-side,  and  ower  the 
brig,  and  creep  in  at  the  byre,  for  the  ha'  door's  steekit  fast  ; 
an'  gin  our  rnither  comes  to  milk  the  kye,  I'll  loup  intil  hei 
arms.  Then  I'll  ca'  Habbie,  and  Sandy,  and  winsome  Willie, 
and  we'll  a'  be  blithe  thegither.  Come,  Sister  Alice,"  added 
he,  advancing  to  the  heavy  door,  "  tirl  the  pin,  and  let's 
awa  !" 

"  Away,  then,"  said  Alice,  sadly  ;  and  faro  you  well,  mj 
bonnie  brother  that  I  will  never  see  more !" 

He  hardly  heard  her,  so  eager  was  he  in  looking  for  the  in 


232  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

visible  fastening  of  the  door.  The  moment  his  fingers  touch- 
ed it,  it  opened  of  its  own  accord,  wide  enough  to  admit  of 
the  boy's  passing.  He  leaped  through  in  an  instant. 

"  Come  awa,  quick,  sister  !"  cried  Hugh,  stretching  out  his 
hand  from  the  other  side. 

"  I  can  not.  They  stole  me,  an  unchristened  child  ;  I  may 
not  return  to  earth,  unless  they  please.  See,  brother,  the 
gates  are  closing,  and  crushing  me.  Ah,  hold  them  back  !" 
For  a  minute  the  boy's  fearless  hands  did  as  she  bade  ;  the 
brother  and  sister  clung  together  and  kissed  one  another  sor- 
rowfully through  the  opening  that  was  momently  diminishing 
between  them.  Then  the  great  green  doors  closed  with  a 
hollow  clang,  and  not  a  trace  remained  of  where  they  had 
been. 

Hughie  sat  and  wept,  all  alone,  on  the  snowy  hill-side. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"AwA  wi'  your  father,  my  bonnie  sons;  I  wadna  ye  suld 
bide  at  name  wi'  a  puir  sick  doited  body  like  mysel.  Though 
it's  weariewark,  lyin'  here  my  lane  ; — but  maybe  it's  no  for 
iang." 

The  words,  faint  but  patient,  began  cheerfully,  and  ended 
in  a  half-audible  murmur.  Mistress  Learmont  leaned  back 
on  the  couch  that  was  made  up  for  her  near  the  ingle-side, 
and  looked  fondly  yet  sorrowfully  on  her  three  tall  lads,  now 
fast  outgrowing  boyhood.  There  were  but  three,  Hugh  and 
the  twins.  Winsome  Willie,  the  youngest,  had  been  covered 
up  to  sleep  in  the  green kirkyard  of  Melrose— one  of  those  lost 
darlings  who  are  destined  to  live  in  household-memory,  en- 
dowed with  the  beauty  of  perpetual  babyhood. 

The  triad  of  brothers  left,  Hugh,  Halbert,  and  Alexander 
— though  from  the  Scottish  habit  of  diminutivoB,  rarely 
enough  did  they  win  that  full-lettered  dignity — were  near  ol 
an  age  and  near  of  a  height;  fine  bold  fellows,  exalting  the 
honors  of  the  Learmont  name  through  all  the  country  round 
— ay,  even  though  they  were  but  plow-boys  and  herd-laddies 
For  to  that  low  estate  had  their  fortunes  dwindled  at  last, 
when  Queen  Mary,  needing  no  court  nor  guard,  pined  away 
in  Tutbury-hold,  and  her  archer,  Thomas  Learmont,  return- 
ed to  his  old  home.  The  next  generation  bade  fair  to  merge 
the  race  of  the  old  Knights  of  Ercildoun  into  mere  tillers  of 
the  field  and  keepers  of  flocks  and  herds.  Dame  Learmont 
now  dead  and  gone,  was  the  last  that  ever  owned  that  honor 
ary  title. 

"  It's  no  for  Iang — it's  no  for  Iang,"  repealed  the  mother, 
as  scarce  reluctantly  the  lads  obeyed  her  and  went  out,  leav- 


234  ALICE  LEAKMONT. 

ing  her  with  a  servant-lassie.  "  It's  sair  to  bide,  though, 
while  it  lasts.  A  twalvmonth  and  mair  I  haena  stirred 
frae  this  ingle-side.  It  was  i'  the  winter  time,  ye  ken,  lass, 
that  I  fell  sick  ;  and  now  the  winter's  here  ance  mair.  Eh  1 
what  day  is't,  Meg  1,  Meg  Brydon,  I  say  !" 

But  the  faint  voice  scarcely  reached  the  careless  young  dam- 
sel, who  stood  watching  the  comer  of  the  kailyard — it  might 
be  for  the  sake  of  enjoying  that  pleasant  sight,  a  red  winter 
sunset;  especially  as  the  foreground  object  was  Jock  the  shep- 
herd-lad leaning  against  a  dyke  arid  whistling  amain. 

"  Wae's  me!"  sighed  Mistress  Learmont,  as  she  ceased 
the  vain  call,  and  sank  down  once  more  on  her  uneasy  pillow 
"  It's  aye  the  same,  and  sae  'twill  be  till  I  am  laid  under  the 
mools.  Braw,  sons  I  hae,  and  a  husband  leal  and  kind,  but 
they're  no  like  a  dochter.  Ah  !  I  mind  when  I  was  a  lassie, 
and  had  a  rnither  o'  my  ain — a  puir  wee  wifie  she  was,  sick 
and  dowie,  for  she  had  ay  a  dour  life  o'  mickle  wae — I  rnind 
how  ane  day,  when  I  was  sitting  by  her,  and  she  near  her 
end,  she  said,  '  Marion,  ye  hae  been  a  gude  bairn  to  me,  a'' 
your  days ;  I  ken  nae  what  ye're  ettled  to  be,  nor  how  ye'll 
gae  through  this  wearie  warld  ;  but,  Marion,  your  rnither 
leaves  ye  ane  blessing,  better  than  a' — May  ye  hae  a  dochter 
like  yoursel  !' — But  I  hae  nane,  and  never  will  !  Oh  ! 
Alice,  Alice,  wherefore  did  ye  gang  1 

Thus,  bitterly  moaning  to  herself  over  her  never-healed  loss, 
the  mother  lay.  Meg  Brydon  had  stolen  out  to  Whistling 
Jock,  leaving  the  door  a  little  way  open. — The  sharp  winter 
air  blew  in  upon  tl  e  sick  woman. 

"  Meg,  can  ye  no  come  and  hap  me  better  1  it's  sair  cauld. 
Ye  dinna  speak ;  ye  canna  be  fashed  wi'  a  puir  sick  body. 
Oh,  dear  Meg,  be  kind  till  me.  just  for  a  wee  whilie — I'll  nr 
trouble  ye  lang.  What,  ye're  gane  ?  Aweel,  it's  nae  won- 
der— I'm  no  your  mither,  lass.  But,  oh,  gin  I  had  my  aiu 
doohter  !  Alice,  Alice  !" 


ALICE  LEARMONI  23 A 

The  heart-wrung  cry  was  suddenly  stopped.  While  she 
called,  Marion  saw,  or  fancied  she  saw,  looking  in  at  the 
frosted  window-panes,  a  face,  which  by  the  dim  light  of  fading 
day  seemed  that  of  a  young  woman.  But  there  was  a  like- 
ness in  it  that  made  a  thrill  of  awe  come  over  her — a  likencs? 
unseen  for  twenty  years. 

She  said  to  herself — "  It  maun  be  that  my  end  is  near  ; 
and  that  my  mither  is  come  back — come  frae  the  grave  tc 
'  tak  me  hame,'  as  she  said.  Aweel,  I'm  ready  ;  I  downa 
care  to  bide  langer.  But  oh,  mither,  gin  I  had,  like  ye, 
a  dochter  to  close  my  eeii !  Oh  !  that  she  were  here — my 
bairn  Alice!" 

While  she  was  speaking  the  face  had  vanished  ;  but  with 
her  latter  words  it  reappeared.  Sweet  it  was,  and  tender  in 
aspect,  wearing  that  fair  and  angelic  look  always  given  by 
golden  hair.  Well  might  the  sick  woman  have  mistaken  it 
for  a  vision  from  the  land  of  the  blessed !  But  as  its  eyes  met 
hers,  they  took  a  human  look,  almost  amounting  to  grief. 
Marion  began  to  doubt. 

"  It's  like  her,  yet  it's  no  hersel — It's  nae  spirit  for  it 
stands  dark  at  ween  me  and  the  sky.  Is  it  my  bairn,  that  I 
wished  might  bear  my  rnither's  likeness  1  Is  it  my  bairn 
that  I  haena  seen  for  seven  years  1  Alice,  Alice  !" 

"  I  am  here,  mother,"  was  the  answer,  heard  indistinctly 
through  the  open  door. 

Marion  uttered  a  great  cry.  She  tried  to  raise  herself,  but 
her  limbs  were  powerless. 

"  In  the  name  o'  God  !  my  dochter,  come  ben  !" 

Alice  stepped  over  the  doorway,  and  came  in. 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  maiden  of  seventeen 
years.  Her  features  had  sharpened  out  into  distinct  form 
and  thoughtful  beauty.  She  was  neither  like  her  mother,  nor 
her  father — except  in  the  color  of  her  hair  ;  but  bore  the 
likeness  which  Marion  had  so  desired  when  she  gave  he» 


236  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

first  born  the  name  of  Alice — her  own  mother's  name.  Sa 
strong  was  the  resemblance,  that,  when  the  girl  stood,  still 
afar  off,  in  her  white  clothing,  with  her  hands  loosely  folded 
together  and  her  eyes  bent  tenderly  forward,  the  sick  woman 
looked  at  her  daughter  with  a  sort  of  awe,  as  if  there  had  still 
been  some  reality  in  her  first  fancy,  and  Alice  were  indeed  a 
vision  from  the  dead. 

"  Are  ye  my  bairn  ?"  she  whispered  solemnly.  "  Are  ye 
flesh  and  blude — my  flesh  and  my  blude — my  ae  dochter  that 
I  bore  ?" 

Alice  approached,  and  stood  at  her  mother's  feet. 

"  I  arn  your  bairn.  Will  ye  take  me,  mother,  for  this 
night  ?  I  was  so  wearying  to  corne  home." 

"  My  bairn — my  dear  Alice — my  lassie  true  and  kind  !" 
cried  the  mother,  stretching  out  longing  arms.  But  in  vain, 
for  her  strength  was  gone. 

"  I  canna  reach  ye,"  she  said  piteously.  "  I'm  sair  changed 
and  weak.  I  do  naething  but  murn  and  murn  a'  the  day. 
Ye  maun  tak  your  puir  auld  mither  to  your  arms,  Alice,  for 
she  canna  tak  ye  in  hers." 

Alice  looked  surprised,  anxious,  grieved,  at  the  worn  face, 
arid  the  gray  hairs  which  had  come  before  their  time.  For 
though  Mistress  Learmont  was  not  old,  the  cares  and  sorrows 
of  her  life,  its  poverty  and  its  toil,  had  made  her  seem  like  a 
woman  far  gone  in  years.  Her  beaut)-  had  faded  ;  all  except 
the  one  charm  that  she  could  not  lose — the  mild  patience 
which  sat  like  a  glory  in  her  eyes.  It  touched  Alice  as  some- 
thing new — something  never  seen  in  Fairyland.  It  subdued 
her  so,  that  she,  in  all  her  loveliness  of  unclouded  youth,  came 
near,  and  bending  down  lowly,  knelt  before  her  sick  mother, 
and  threw  round  the  shivering  frame  her  shining  arms. 

"  Are  ye  come  back,  my  dearie  1  come  back  for  gude  and 
a'  ?"  whispered  Marion,  giving  herself  up  1o  the  uncontrollable 
jov. 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  S5H7 

Aliv-'e  sighed ;  ay,  a  real  sigh,  the  first  the  mother  had  ever 
heard  on  her  lips.  "  Nay,  we  will  not  speak  of  that.  1  am 
here  now.  They  let  me  come  the  minute  the  sun  set,  because 
my  longings  made  their  power  weak.  Are  you  glad  to  see  me, 
mother  ?" 

"  Glad,  rny  bairn  !"  echoed  Marion  in  a  tone  that  was  suf- 
ficient answer. 

Her  daughter  looked  round,  half-curiously,  yet  with  a  min- 
gling of  interest.  "  It's  the  same  place  I  see,  the  room  where  I 
and  my  brothers  played  so  merrily.  Where's  Hughie,  mother  ?" 

"  He's  gane  wi'  the  rest  to  follow  the  plough,  or  fetch  the 
kye  hame  ;  or  maybe  he's  awa  to  some  ploy  or  ither.  He's  a 
pawky  lad — our  Hugh." 

"  Does  he  mind  of  me,  mother  ?" 

"  Ay  ;  often  thae  callants  talk  o'  wee  Alice  that  was  wi' 
them  seven  years  syne  ;  and  ance  when  Hughie  was  missing 
on  the  hills  for  a  day  and  a  nicht,  he  cam  hame  saying  he 
had  been  dreaming  that  he  fell  intil  the  Tweed,  and  that  his 
sister  Alice  saved  him.  He  kent  nae  mair.  But  'twas  unco 
strange." 

Nothing  did  Alice  say,  for  she  knew  that  those  who  return 
from  Fairyland  have  no  clear  remembrance  of  aught  that  has 
happened  to  them  there.  Only  thinking  of  her  brother  Hugh 
and  of  that  wondrous  journey,  she  smiled  pensively. 

In  her  srnile  the  likeness  she  bore  grew  stronger.  Marion 
watching  her,  saw  it.  She  took  her  daughter's  face  between 
her  hands,  and  said, 

"  Look  sae  ance  mair,  Alice  !  Y.e're  her  very  picture.  I 
didria  see't  till  this  day,  when  ye're  grown  a  woman,  grave 
and  dowie  like.  Ye  hae  her  een,  and  her  bonnie  bree  wi'  the 
hair  lying  soft  aboon  ;  only  yours  is  bright  as  gowd,  and  hers 
was  like  threads  of  siller — my  puir  auld  mither  !  But  I'm 
glad  ye're  like  her,  Alice  ;  I'm  unco  glad  !" 

Her  voice  was  trembling  through  tears  ;  her  words,  feeble, 


238  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

•'  maundering,"  and  long  drawn  out,  bespoke  the  wandering 
fancies  of  sickness.  When  she  ceased,  her  head  sank  back 
exhausted  on  the  pillow. 

Alice  stood  wistfully  regarding  that — to  her — strange  new 
sight — disease  and  pain. 

"  What  ails  you,  mother  1  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  she 
asked,  more  by  the  human  and  womanly  instinct  within  her 
than  by  any  deeper  feeling. 

"  I'm  very  sick,  Alice  ;  and  I  hae  naebody  to  tend  me.  Oh, 
gin  ye'd  gie  me  a  drink,  and  bathe  my  bree,  and  kame  my 
hair,"  she  moaned,  looking  imploringly  at  her  daughter. 

Alice  rose  up,  and  went  about  the  house,  not  as  in  years 
before,  with  flaunting  childish  mien,  but  with  the  grave  light 
footsteps  of  maidenhood.  She  went — all  in  her  bright  cloth- 
ing, still  redolent  of  the  odors  of  Fairyland  ;  she  brought  the 
light,  arid  got  ready  the  cool  drink — doing  things  which  she 
had  never  done  before,  but  which  her  earthly  nature  instinct- 
ively taught  her. 

"  Ah,  it's  sweet,  sae  sweet,"  murmured  the  sick  woman, 
receiving,  for  the  first  time,  the  cup  from  her  daughter's  hand. 
"  Ilka  thing  tastes  gude  frae  ye,  my  lassie,  as  my  ain  mither 
was  wont  to  say  to  me  lang  syne.  God  help  thae  puir  auld 
bodies  that  hae  ne'er  a  dochter  !" 

Alice  smiled,  and  in  her  cheek,  always  so  clear,  rose  a  trans 
parent  flush  of  pleasure — pleasure  quite  different  to  what  was 
so  called  in  Elfland. 

Her  mother,  a  little  revived,  sat  up  in  her  bed,  and  looked 
at  her  once  more  ;  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  never  tire  of  such 
gazing,  which  absorbed  all  thought,  but  of  the  present. 

"  Ye're  a  sweet  lassie,  Alice — -and  fair  to  see.  But  I  dinna 
like  thae  braws — they're  no  fit  for  a  puir  man's  bairn,"  said 
she,  touching  the  glittering  robes,  armlets,  and  jewels,  01 
what  seemed  such — with  which  her  daughter  was  adorned 
Ali^e  looked  vexed. 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  «29 

"  Aweel,  my  dearie,  I  wadna  grieve  ye.  Only  it  gars  ye 
seern  as  if  ye  were  a  grand  leddy,  and  no  my  ain  dochter  ; — 
whilk,  maybe,  is  but  the  truth,"  added  she,  sadly. 

Alice  sat  a  minute  in  thought ;  then,  without  speaking,  she 
went  to  the  corner  where  thick  in  dust  hung  some  of  her 
mother's  garments,  long  unworn  through  sickness.  She  strip- 
ped off  all  her  shining  gauds,  arid  dressed  herself  in  these 
coarse  clothes,  which,  while  somewhat  hiding  her  form,  made 
her  look  sweeter  and  fairer,  because  more  like  a  mortal 
maiden. 

"  Ah  !  I  ken  ye  now — ye're  my  ain,  my  ain,"  cried  the 
mother  embracing  her.  "  Ye'll  loe  me — and  tend  me — and 
never,  never  part  frae  me  !" 

The  girl  sighed,  but  made  no  answer  ;  and  began  quietly 
to  fulfill  all  a  daughter's  offices  toward  the  sick  woman.  She 
bathed  her  face,  and  taking  off  her  cap,  let  down  the  hair  al- 
ready turned  tc  gray.  Alice  paused,  with  the  locks  in  her 
hand. 

"  Are  you  very  old,  mother  ?  Will  you  never  be  young 
and  fair-looking  any  more  ?  Do  all  people  that  live  on  earth, 
grow  feeble  as  you  ?" 

"  In  time — my  bairn — in  time  !  But  it's  naething.  I  wa? 
a  bonny  lass  mysel,  ance — when  I  married  your  father,  and 
even  when  I  brought  ye  into  the  warld.  But  I  forget  a'  that. 
It's  sweeter  to  be  an  auld  wifie,  and  hae  a  bonnie  dcchter 
smilin'  near.  Then,  a  body  isna  feared  for  growin'  auld." 

Her  cheerful  look,  as  she  leaned  forward  and  let  Alice  comb 
her  gray  hair,  was  almost  like  the  smile  of  young  Marion 
Learmont,  when,  seventeen  years  before,  she  sat  tying  the 
fatal  green  round  the  cradle  of  her  expected  babe.  Her  over- 
laden heart  heaved  a  sigh  of  entire  content ;  and  again  and 
again  she  drew  Alice  closer,  to  look  into  her  young  face,  and 
admire  the  maidenly  beauties  of  her  form.  In  this  maternal 
love  was  an  exulting  pride,  almost  as  strong  as  that  with  which 


240  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

a  young  man  watches  the  dawning  perfections  of  his  mk^tiss 
—a  pride  which  none  can  know  or  understand  but  a  mother 
who  beholds  her  only  daughter  woman-grown,  and  feels  her 
own  youth  restored  in  the  fair  completeness  of  what  was  once 
a  frail  baby-life  trembling  at  her  breast. 

An  hour  passed  in  this  deep  serenity  of  joy ;  and  then  Meg 
Brydon  carne  creeping  in,  eyeing  with  shame  and  discomfiture 
her  forsaken  mistress. 

"  Gang  your  gate,  Meg,"  said  Mistress  Learmont,  cheer- 
fully. "  I  will  need  ye  nae  mair  ;  I  hae  my  ain  dochter, 
that's  come  hamethis  nicht.  Look  ye  here,  Meg  Brydon  : — 
isna  she  a  bonnie  lass?" 

But  Meg,  frightened  at  the  apparition  of  the  fair  creature 
that  sat  beside  Mistress  Learmont's  bed,  and  remembering 
all  the  tales  of  the  stolen  Alice,  took  hastily  to  flight.  The 
mother  and  daughter  were  left  together,  as  before. 

"We'll  be  our  lane  the  hale  nicht,  maist  likely,"  said  Marion 
to  her  child.  "  It's  New  Year's  night,  ye  ken.  and  your  father 
and  the  three  callants  are  down  at  Melrose,  keeping  Hog- 
manay. I  forbade  them  to  bide  at  hame — douf  and  dowie 
wi'  me.  But,  my  Alice,  I  kenn'd  na  then  I  wad  hae  thee!" 

So  amidst  long  talk  and  sweet  pauses  of  silence,  the  night 
passed  away.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  Alice  heard  the 
things  pertaining  to  simple  earthly  lore  ;  of  precious  home- 
bonds  ;  of  afflictions  softened  by  tenderness  ;  of  trials  made 
holy  by  patience  ;  of  human  sorrows,  that  go  hand-in-hand 
with  human  joys  ;  of  evil  enhancing  good  ;  of  wrong  creating 
forbearance  ;  and  long-suffering,  ever  present  love,  reigning 
triumphant  over  all. 

These  many  things  did  Marion  Learrnont  teach  unto  her 
daughter,  though  so  unconsciously,  that  any  stranger  listening 
would  have  said  that  it  was  merely  an  "  auld  wife  clavering" 
to  a  young  girl  about  former  days,  and  her  own  past  life,  to- 
gether with  the  events  of  her  family.  Nothing1  wonderful 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  241 

she  told — only  that  history  which  belongs  to  every  household 
and  every  individual,  in  all  times  ancient  or  modern,  of  which 
the  text,  adduced  either  as  example  or  warning,  perpetually 
is,  or  ought  to  be,  these  words — the  honey  of  the  world's  bit- 
ter cup— "  My  little  children,  love  one  anoUtcr.' 

It  might  be  about  ten  o'clock,  at  night  when  the  solitude  of 
Marion  Learmout  and  her  daughter  was  broken  by  voices  at 
the  door  without. 

Alice  trembled,  and  instinctively  clung  to  her  mother's 
hand. 

"  Oh,  hold  me  fast ;  just  a  little  while  longer,"  she  whispered 
eagerly. 

"  What  for  do  ye  fear,  my  lassie  1  It's  naebody  but  your 
ain  father,  and  your  brithers  three ;  stand  and  let  them  see 
ye,  my  dochter." 

With  a  sweet  and  bashful  grace,  her  face  yet  pale  from  the 
unexplained  terror,  Alice  stood — a  vision  of  beauty — before 
her  rough  sire  and  her  three  wild  brothers.  They  were  ut- 
terly confounded. 

"  What's  this,  Marion  ]"  said  the  late  archer  of  Queen 
Mary's  guard,  stooping  his  yellow  locks,  now  growing  grizzled 
and  thin,  near  his  ailing  wife,  and  trying  to  lower  his  strong 
voice  so  as  not  to  jar  upon  her  feeble  ear. 

"  It's  our  Alice,  our  first-born.  She's  come  hame.  Gieher 
your  blessing." 

"Eh,  our  Alice  that  was  stown  awa  ?"  said  Thomas  Lear- 
mont,  who,  like  all  recovered  mortals,  was  utterly  oblivious 
of  the  past,  and  bore  no  memory  of  the  stream  in  Fairyland, 
01  the  little  elfin  daughter  that  used  to  visit  him  there 
<;  Alice  come  back !  Sure,  lass,  I'm  unco  glad  to  see  ye  !" 

He  took  her  in  his  sturdy  arms,  and  his  hearty  parental  Ids; 
resounded  over  the  whole  house. 

"  Whar  hae  ye  been,  ye  foolish  lassie  ?  ye  hae  caused  ua 
micklc  dule.  Yc  suld  hae  came  back  for  your  puir  mithcr's 

L 


242  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

sake-  that  needs  a  lass-bairn  to  tend  on  her,  instead  of  thae 
big  callants  and  mysel,  though  we  aye  do  our  best.  But 
ye'll  fare  better  now,  Marion  woman  !" 

He  patted  his  wife's  shoulder  with  his  huge  hand,  and  she 
looked  up  tenderly  at  him.  Times  were  changed  with  them, 
and  they  were  changed  too — except  in  the  affection  which  on 
both  sides  had  lasted,  and" would  last,  until  the  end. 

Meanwhile  the  three  lads  had  hung  back,  oppressed  with 
the  uncouth  shyness  peculiar  to  their  age.  Only  Hugh 
among  them  took  courage  to  lift  up  his  eyes  and  speak  to 
sister  Alice.  He  had  grown  a  sturdy  fellow,  less  bonnie,  per- 
haps, than  in  childhood,  but  with  the  promise  of  becoming  a 
Learmont  worthy  even  as  True  Thomas  of  a  Queen  of  Fairies' 
love. 

His  sister  came  and  looked  up  in  his  face — a  decided  look- 
ing up,  for  she  was  a  wee  creature  always,  quite  elf-like  in 
proportion,  when  standing  beside  her  big  brother  of  thirteen 
years  old. 

"  Hughie,  dear  !  won't  you  speak  to  me?" 

Hughie  cast  his  eyes  upon  her  shyly,  but  tenderly,  "  Ay, 
I'll  do  that — I  mind  ye  now,  sister  Alice,  and  a'  the  things 
I  dreamed  about  ye ;  and,"  he  added  mysteriously,  "  I  ken 
ye  hae  been  wi'  the  gude  neighbors,  and  I  hae  sought  ye  in 
ilka  green  ring,  and  aye  at  Hallowe'en,  but  I  couldna  find 
ye.  Ye're  found  now  !  Oh,  but  we'll  keep  Hogmanay, 
fine!" 

As  a  mild  way  of  expressing  his  feelings,  Hughie  tossed  up 
his  bonnet  in  the  air,  and  executed  a  brief  fragment  of  a  reel, 
which  drove  Habbie  and  Sandy  out  of  the  r3ach  of  his  legs 
with  great  precipitation. 

"Ye're  richt,  lad,"  said  the  father,  turning  round  with  a 
loud  cheerful  laugh.  "  Auld  wife,  it's  our  blithest  New  Year 
yet,  and  we'll  keep  it  brawly ;  sitting  here  wi'  a'  our  bairne 
round  us  !" 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  2-13 

"  Save  ane,"  whispered  the  mother,  "  wee  Willie,  that's 
sittin'  this  ae  nnht  in  heaven  at  His  feet." 

Thomas  Learmont  took  off' his  bonnet,  so  did  the  lads  ;  and 
there  was  silence  in  the  house  for  a  minute.  It  was  a  pause 
consecrated  to  the  memory  of  the  one  lamb  lost  out  of  the 
flock  to  be  gathered  into  the  safe  fold  of  the  Great  Shepherd. 

Then  began  the  merriment  of  Hogmahay — kept  as  merrily 
in  those  olden  days  as  now.  Parents  and  children  gathered 
round  the  fire,  which,  for  this  occasion  only  was  piled  up  with 
faggots  that  would  have  done  honor  to  the  time  when  the 
wine  ran  red,  and  the  hospitable  ingle  blazed  perpetually  in 
the  Tower  of  Ercildoun.  The  young  Learmonts  sported, 
shouted,  and  danced  ;  but  whenever  the  uproar  grew  too  wild, 
Alice's  gentleness  fell  like  dew  upon  the  other  three,  softening 
rudeness  or  contention,  coming  among  her  troop  of  brothers 
to  be  what  a  sister  can  always  be,  the  healer  of  discord,  the 
soother,  the  refiner. 

All  these  things  she  had  learned,  partly  by  nature — hei 
mother's  nature,  which  was  inherent  in  her ;  and  partly  by 
the  sudden  instinct,  developed  at  once,  during  the  few  hours 
when  she  had  lain  listening  to  that  mild  speech  which  first 
put  all  a  daughter's  emotions  into  her  heart. 

She  was  very  happy  too.  Ay,  though  on  this  memorable 
night  when  she  began  to  feel  altogether  like  a  maiden  of  earth, 
she  grew  hungry — and  the  food  was  coarse  ;  weary — and  was 
startled  by  her  father's  loud  laugh,  so  different  from  the  lull- 
ing melodies  of  Fairyland  ;  though  oftentimes  her  brothers' 
noisy  play  jarred  upon  her  delicate  senses,  and  their  rough 
caresses  half-frightened  her — still,  she  was  happy.  She  had 
learnt  for  the  first  time  the  great  secret  of  all  human  happi- 
ness— family  love. 

The  hour  came,  the  eerie  time  between  tlie  night  and  the 
day,  between  the  past  and  coming  year — the  hour  which  had 
brought  Alice  into  the  world.  As  the  clock  chimed,  Thomas 


244  ALICE  LEA&MONT. 

Learmont  took  his  first-born  and  only  daughter  in  his  arm* 
and  blessed  her  ;  while  the  parental  love,  which  is  an  instinct 
m  a  mother,  but  in  a  father  is  usually  the  growth  of  years, 
and  dependent  on  external  sympathies,  rose  to  his  heart,  and 
fell  in  drops  from  his  manly  eyes. 

Then  her  mother  kissed  her  fondly,  and  afterward  hei 
brothers  did  the  same — awkwardly  and  shyly,  as  all  brothers 
do,  at  the  age  when  the  testifying  of  household  affections 
seems  to  them  undignified — in  fact,  a  positive  sin  against  the 
independence  of  boyhood.  All  said,  "  God  bless  thee,  Alice — 
our  Alice  !"  and  she  felt  that  she  was  indeed  one  of  them, 
ready  to  share  all  things  with  them,  through  good  and  evil ; — 
that  the  solitary  delights  of  Elfland  were  desired  by  her  no 
more. 

"  Now,  gang  to  your  bed,  my  dochler,"  said  Mistress 
Learmont  tenderly,  when,  the  New  Year  having  fairly  com- 
menced, the  three  lads  were  dispatched  to  sleep  arid  quiet- 
ness, during  the  only  portion  of  the  twenty-four  hours  that 
they  ever  were  quiet.  "  But  yet  T  canna  tine  ye  for  an 
hour." 

"  Oh,  do  not,  mother,"  sighed  Alice,  while  the  olden  shadow 
of  fear  troubled  her  face.  "  Hold  me  fast — fast  ;  let  me  not 

*>•" 

"  Ay,  the  lass  is  skeared.  Nae  doubt ;  the  place  looks 
drearie  like — bide  ye  wi'  your  mither,  Alice,"  said  Thomas 
Learmont  kindly,  as  he  rolled  himself  in  his  plaid  and  lay 
down  at  the  outer  door. 

So  Alice,  exhausted  with  a  joy  that  made  her  feel  weak 
and  trembling  like  any  earthly  maiden,  crept  gladly  to  the 
maternal  breast. 

She  had  not  slept  there  long,  when  she  was  wakened  with 
the  dawn  glimmering  into  her  eyelids.  Very  soon  that  dim 
ray  was  swallowed  up  in  one  far  brighter.  The  whole  house 
was  filled  with  light,  and  thrilled  with  delicious  music 


ALICE  LEARMONT  243 

Alice  knew  it  well.  The  sweet  summons  reached  her  as  one 
of  doom.  It  was  the  fairy  people  come  to  take  her  away. 

Shuddering  she  listened,  and  with  an  instinct  natural  and 
child-like,  yet  alas !  to  her  so  new,  tried  to  wake  her  mother. 
But  Marion  Learmont  slept  soundly,  with  a  sweet  smile  on 
her  worn  face,  which  in  this  happiness  seemed  almost  to  have 
renewed  its  youth.  She  slept  as  if  a  deep  spell  was  upon  her, 
blinding  her  to  her  child's  peril.  Only  in  sleep  she  held  hei 
arras  so  tightly  wound  round  her,  that  Alice  felt  a  kind  of 
safety  in  their  fold.  From  thence  the  poor  maiden  looked 
out  and  watched  the  elfin  people  gathering  round  the  bed. 

"  Come,  Alice ;  come,  pretty  Alice,"  sang  they,  amidst 
their  gambols.  "  Are  you  not  weary  of  these  coarse  laidly 
mortals  ?  Come  back  to  us,  quick  !  " 

"  Oh,  let  me  stay  a  little  longer,"  implored  the  girl.  •"  I 
am  so  tired  of  dancing  and  singing.  I  had  rather  bide  at 
home." 

"Hey  ho!"  laughed  out  the  Elf-queen,  stepping  lightly 
into  the  ring,  "  this  is  something  quite  new.  What  has  come 
over  my  young  hand-maiden  ?  She  would  like  to  stay  in  a 
wretched  tumble-down  dwelling  where  the  rain  always  comes 
in  and  the  smoke  never  goes  out  ;  and  to  live  with  such  people, 
too  !  Entering  the  door,  which  he  left  open  to  stretch  his  feet 
through,  I  had  to  step  over  such  a  lumbering  carcass  of  a  mor- 
tal. Faugh  !  is  my  young  Thomas  Learmont  come  to  this  ? 
a  thing  with  grizzled  hair  and  coarse  hands  !" 

"  He  is  my  father,  my  kind  good  father,"  cried  Alice. 

"  And  that  woman  there,  how  ugly  ;  why,  I  could  lay  my 
little  finger  in  each  of  her  wrinkles." 

"  My  mother,  my  own  mother  that  I  love  !"  Alice  answered, 
as  she  turned  and  pressed  her  young  lips  to  every  furrow 
marked  in  the  withered  brows. 

The  elves  set  up  a  shout  of  derision. 

"  Nay,  Alice,"  said  the  queen,  her  silvery  laughter  makmj 


24b  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

a  pleasant  under-tone  of  melody,  "  this  may  be  all  very  weft 
for  some  common  tastes,  but  not  for  a  descendant  of  my  True 
Thomas,  who  gave  up  all  for  me.  Ay,  all !  though  the  Tow- 
er of  Ercildoun  was  a  home  rich  and  fair,  while  this  is  a  poor 
cottage  ; — though  he  was  held  the  noblest  knight  in  all  Scot- 
land, while  you  are  just  a  farmer's  lass.  Be  wise,  simple  one  ; 
come  back  to  former  ways  and  former  delights." 

At  her  signal  the  elves  began  to  dance  the  old  delicious 
measures  which  Alice  remembered  well.  So  strong  was  the 
enchantment  that  she  had  need  to  close  her  eyes  and  stop  her 
ears  lest  she  should  be  allured  against  her  will.  Had  it  not 
been  that  her  mother's  arms  were  so  closely  locked  around 
her,  perhaps  she  would  even  have  leaped  forth  and  joined  the 
rout  of  frantic  pleasure. 

All  at  once  it  paused,  melting  into  delicious  soul-enticing 
music,  through  which  was  only  heard  the  voice  of  the  Elf- 
queen,  murmuring  "  Alice,  come." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  said  firmly,  "  I  will  not  come." 

There  was  a  loud  and  angry  wail,  like  that  of  the  wine 
tearing  the  trees,  a  rolling  like  thunder,  and  in  these  sounds 
the  music  died. 

"  Do  as  you  list,  foolish  mortal,"  Alice  heard  uttered  in  a 
sharp  sarcastic  voice  by  her  side,  though  she  saw  nothing. 
"  It  matters  not  to  us,  for  you  will  soon  be  ours.  It  is  day- 
light and  we  must  be  away  to  Fairyland  ;  while  those  arms 
still  hold  you  safe  from  our  power.  But  by  the  next  twilight 
when  the  shadows  fall  grey  behind  Eildon  Hill,  ha  !  ha  !  na  ! 
— Foolish  Alice,  foolish  Alice,  when  this  is  the  seventh  year 
— and  a  mortal  fair  as  you  will  please  the  Fiend  well.  Ho,  ho !" 

A  shout  of  angry  laughter  shook  the  roof;  the  elves  van- 
ished, and  the  whole  house  lay  silent  in  the  dawn. 

Mistress  Learmont  woke,  and  tremblingly  felt  for  her 
daughter.  Her  beloved  Alice  lay  in  her  bosom,  quite  still 
and  pale  with  open  eyes  watching  the  sunbeams  creep  alon« 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  247 

the  floor.  It  was  the  first  time  Marion  had  ever  seen  that 
face  iu  daylight — the  first  time  Alice  had  ever  beheld  the  sun 
— the  warm,  healthy,  labour-inspiring,  earth-risen  sun. 

"  Is  this  morning  ?"  she  said,  softly,  turning  her  eyes,  full 
of  strange  pensiveness,  on  her  mother. 

"  It  is,  my  bairn  ;  God  be  wi'  ye  on  this  braw  New  Year." 

Alice  was  silent.  She  scarce  understood  the  blessing  ;  it 
belonged  to  a  lore  not  taught  in  Fairyland.  Soon  afterward 
she  said,  still  keeping  her  thoughtful  look — 

"  Mother,  how  long  do  you  call  a  day — from  twilight  to  twi 
light?" 

"  It's  unco  short  now,  frae  sunrise  to  sunset ;  we  hae  scarce 
time  for  the  wark  that  maun  be  dune." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Alice,  sadly.     "  Mother,  may  I  rise  ?" 

She  rose  accordingly  ;  and  Marion  Learmont  beheld  her 
daughter  moving  about  the  house  like  other  mortal  daugh- 
ters, ready  to  fulfill  all  the  duties  that  it  behooved  her  to  learn. 
Very  pale  and  clear  Alice's  features  looked  in  the  bright  day- 
light. There  was  even  a  wan  unearthly  aspect  about  her — 
a  weariness  and  painful  repose.  All  the  day  she  comported 
herself  thus  ;  doing  whatsoever  became  her  station,  and  doing 
it  in  a  manner  that  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  used  to  it  all 
her  life.  Only  when  the  neighbors  came  in  to  stare  at  her, 
and  some  marveled  at  her  wondrous  grace,  and  some  jested 
bitterly  about  Thomas  Learmont's  lost  daughter,  who  had 
come  back  they  knew  not  from  where,  Alice  would  shrink 
away  and  hide  herself  by  her  mother's  side,  where  alone  she 
seemed  to  find  entire  content  and  rest. 

It  was  a  dull  winter  day,  and  the  forenoon  had  scarcely 
passed,  when  black  rain-clouds  grew  heavy  over  Eildon  Hill. 
As  they  darkened,  evermore  Alice's  sweet  face  darkened  too. 
She  would  pause  continually  in  her  light  labor  or  her  pleas- 
ant  talk,  and  look  sorrowfully  at  her  mother,  as  if  she  could 
not  find  speech  to  tell  her  pain.  A.S  the  afternoon  closed  iu 


i48  ALICE  LEAEMONT. 

and  the  mid-day  meal  being  over,  the  father  and  brothers 
back  to  their  toil — Alice,  sitting  with  her  mother,  gre\*  con- 
tinually sadder  and  sadder.  Nevertheless,  she  went  about 
the  house,  heaped  fagots  on  the  fire,  prepared  food,  and  did 
3 very  thing  for  the  sick  woman's  comfort,  just  as  if  she  her- 
self had  been  going  away  and  wished  to  leave  every  thing  in 
neat  order,  so  as  to  be  comfortable  for  the  one  she  loved. 

She  took  one  other  precaution,  before  she  came  and  sat 
iown  at  her  mother's  side ; — she  bolted  and  barred  the  doors, 
leaving  no  entrance  from  without.  But  she  did  it  with  a 
despairing  look,  as  though  she  knew  that  all  was  in  vain. 

About  dusk  Marion  Learmont  fell  asleep ;  but  waking 
soon  after,  asked  for  water.  Alice  brought  her  a  pitcher-full. 

"  Ah,  not  that,  my  bairn  ;  I  wad  like  a  draught  fr?e  that 
bonnie  burn  ye  see,"  said  she,  with  feverish  longing.  "  It's 
no  mony  steps  frae  this,  and  it  rins  ower  pebbles  sae  fresh  and 
clear.  Alice,  will  ye  gang  ?" 

Alice  sighed,  as  though  knowing  all  that  would  follow  from 
this  request,  so  meekly  and  unconsciously  made.  But  there 
was  no  resisting  the  mother's  desire.  She  took  up  her  pitch* 
er,  and  went. 

She  came  back  again,  very  pale,  with  quick  wild  steps. 
There  was  a  sound  following  her,  like  the  soughing  of  an 
angry  wind,  though  nothing  could  be  seen. 

Hurriedly  the  girl  put  the  cup  to  her  mother's  lips. 

"  Drink,  mother,  drink,  and  then  kiss  me  ;  for  I  must  go." 

"  Whar,  my  lassie  ?" 

"  Far  away,  far  away,  with  those  you  know.  They  drag 
me,  they  constrain  me.  Mother,  I  can  not  stay  !" 

Her  voice  was  almost  a  scream,  and  she  writhed  like  one 
struggling  with  invisible  hands. 

"  Oh,  remember  me,  mother,  and  I'll  remember  you  !  And 
ah  !  keep  Hughie  safe,  that  he  comes  no  more  into  theii 
power,  where  I  stay  miserable  and  against  my  wiU  ' 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  24J 

"  Then  ye  sail  be  saved,  my  bairn,"  cried  the  mother,  rising 
from  her  first  numbed  terror  into  supernatural  strength.  '  He 
that  gave  ye  to  me — He  that  is  the  keeper  o'  your  saul — is 
greater  than  they  that  haud  ye  fast.  He  winna  leave  ye  to 
perish.  He  will  help  your  mither  to  save  ye.  How  maun  I 
do 't  1  Tell  me,  Alice,  my  ae  dochter — my  first-born,  sent  by 
God !" 

As  she  uttered  the  great  Name,  a  wild  and  mournful  cry 
arose.  With  it  was  mingled  Alice's  voice  : 

"  Ay  !  save  me,  mother.  Stand  at  the  four  cross  roads, 
on  the  eve  of  Roodmass,  when  we  all  ride.  Ye'll  see  me. 
Snatch  me,  and  hold  me  fast,  and  have  no  fear.  Oh  !  save 
me,  mother,  mother  !" 

It  was  only  a  voice  that  spoke — nothing  more.  Alice  had 
melted  out  of  sight.  Her  cry  of  "  Save  me,  save  me  !"  died 
away  in  distance  and  silence  ;  and  the  mother  heard  nc  thing 
— felt  nothing — but  the  bitter  winter  wind  blowing  thrcujrh 
the  open  door. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FAR  far  through  all  the  black  depths  of  the  underground 
world,  did  the  elves  bear  their  changeling  maiden  ;  now,  foi 
the  first  time,  an  unwilling  and  sorrowful  prey.  Feeble  and 
exhausted  she  was  too,  even  like  any  mortal  girl,  worn  out  by 
weeping  and  regret. 

"  Now,  Alice,  thou  art  the  most  foolish  damsel  on  earth," 
said  the  blithesome  queen,  who  had  not  feeling  enough  to  be 
either  angry  or  revengeful.  "  To  think  of  your  desiring  to 
remain  behind,  and  crying  your  sweet  eyes  blind  because  the 
thing  was  impossible.  Look,  how  near  shines  the  golden 
gate  ;  soon  we  will  be  once  more  in  Fairyland." 

But  Alice  wept  on. 

"  I  never  knew  such  a  provoking  little  mortal.  Don'i 
go  on  dreaming,  Alice.  Look  at  this  stream  we  have  tc 
cross." 

The  girl  looked  mechanically.  Well  she  knew  the  shallow 
river,  which,  with  many  another,  she  had  waded  through 
again  and  again,  while  the  light  elves  skimmed  along  the  top. 
But,  while  in  the  midst  of  its  current,  she  cast  her  eyes  down, 
shuddered  and  screamed  :  she  saw  it  as  she  had  never  seen 
before — a  river  of  blood  ! 

"  What,  you  dislike  that  !"  said  the  Queen  of  Fairies. 
"  Really,  how  very  particular  my  handsome  maiden  has 
grown  ;  worse  by  far  than  the  Knight  of  Ercildoun.  whom  1 
led  hither.  It  is  only  the  blood  spilt  on  earth  which  drips 
down  to  Fairyland.  W?j  have  no  objection  ;  it  makes  GUI 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  5.61 

streams  a  brighter  color,  that  is  all.     Come  across,  my  little 
maid." 

In  an  agony  Alice  struggled  to  the  shore,  unharmed,  save 
by  a  few  red  drops  that  clung  to  her  robe. 

"  It  is  the  blood  of  Geordie  Graharne,  slain  by  your  father 
the  day  you  were  born,"  observed  the  queen,  carelessly.  "  But 
no  matter,  the  next  stream  we  cross  will  wash  it  out.  Ay, 
and  you  may  drink  of  that,"  she  continued,  as  Alice  lay  ex- 
hausted beside  another  rivulet,  which  ran  clear  and  spark- 
iing,  though  with  a  perfectly  silent  flow. 

Dying  with  thirst,  Alice  dipped  in  her  hollowed  hand,  and 
put  it  to  her  lips,  but  the  water  was  salt  and  bitter. 

"  Drink,  silly  maiden  !  It  is  only  the  tears  shed  on  earth, 
coming  down  hither.  Mortal  women — and  your  mother  es- 
pecially— help  to  keep  the  river  continually  flowing.  Pry- 
thee,  Alice,  do  not  add  to  the  wave." 

"  Ah  me  !"  cried  Alice,  "  and  it  is  through  blood  and  tears 
that  I  must  pass,  and  have  passed,  to  reach  the  land  of 
pleasure  !" 

No  more  she  spake,  but  fell  heavily  on  the  ground,  so  often 
traversed  with  delight,  but  which  she  now  with  opened  eyes 
saw  to  be  a  delusive  and  a  thorny  way. 

'•'  Oh,  these  mortals,  these  mortals!"  petulantly  exclaimed 
the  Queen  of  Fairies.  "  But  take  her  up,  rny  elves,  and 
bring  her  safe  through  the  golden  gate  ;  it  is  quite  impossible 
that  our  peace  can  be  disturbed  by  an  earth-born  creature's 
lamentings  outside  the  portals  of  Fairyland.  Once  within 
there,  she  will  of  course  be  content ,  and  we  will  have  a  few 
extra  feasts  and  junkettings.  The  glory  of  our  kingdom  is 
concerned  ;  for,  my  subjects,  the  fact  is" — and  her  majesty 
shrugged  her  shoulders — "we  may  not  keep  anything  human 
long,  if  altogether  against  its  will.  As  my  Knight  of  Ercil 
doun  foretold,  we  may  have  to  give  her  up  at  last  but  we'i 
keep  the  creature  as  long  as  we  can." 


252  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  dignified  harangue,  to  the 
which  the  bells  of  her  palfrey  rung  applause,  the  queen  spur- 
red on,  arid  entered  the  fair  gates  of  her  kingdom. 

There,  silently  leaning  against  the  portals  which  he  might 
never  pass,  sometimes  looking  wistfully  through  their  trans- 
parent net-work,  sometimes  striking  momentary  chords  on  the 
harp  that  hung  always  at  his  side,  stood  Thomas  of  Ercil- 
doim. 

His  countenance  brightened  when  he  saw  the  queen — his 
adored  ever  ;  though  like  many  another  bard,  he  had  wor- 
shiped no  reality  but  only  the  dream  of  his  own  poet-heart. 

"  Are  ye  come  back,  my  lady  and  Jove  ?"  said  he,  advancing; 
"  and  hae  ye  brought  young  Alice  Learmorit  ?" 

"  Ay,  at  last ;  and  not  content  with  a  whole  night  and  a 
day  on  earth,  she  wanted  to  abide  there  constantly.  She  is 
as  discontented  as  you  are  sometimes,  my  knight,  only  with 
much  more  cause,  since  she  has  never  a  true-love  here  in 
Fairyland." 

The  Rhymer  looked  with  glittering  eyes  at  the  small  elfin 
form  that  wreathed  itself  about  him  in  sprite-like,  child-like 
vagaries.  Even  in  her  caressing  moods,  the  fairy-lady  had  an 
inconstant,  butterfly  air  ;  there  was  nothing  in  her  of  the 
quiet  tender  woman-nature  which  will  cling  to  what  it  loves, 
because  it  loves,  and,  loving  can  not  choose  but  cling.  Yet 
very  witching — in  any  shape — was  the  Rhymer's  love  ! 

He  watched  her,  still  overcome  by  the  glamour  which  had 
never  entirely  passed  away.  But  at  last  his  eye  turned  to 
where  Alice  Learmontlay  in  a  state  of  death-like  unconscious- 
ness which  quite  puzzled  the  elves.  They  were  trying  all 
means  to  awake  her ;  some  buzzing  about  her  in  the  shape 
of  bees,  others  putting  on  the  tiny  feathers  of  birds,  and  warb- 
ling close  in  her  ears ;  and  the  rest  shouting  her  name,  their 
call  sounding  like  dim  echoes  heard  among  woodlands.  But 
there  she  lay,  white  and  motionless,  save  for  the  slow  tears 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  252 

that  came  stealing  under  her  eyelids.  Her  bitter  grief  was 
upon  her  still. 

It  penetrated  the  mortal  nature  of  the  Bard  ofErcildoun. 

"Let  me  gang  till  her,"  said  he  to  the  queen.  "  She  comes 
o'  my  blude — the  earthly  blude  that  throbs  in  my  heart  still. 
Like  can  comfort  like.  I'll  ask  at  the  lassie  wherefore  she 
grieves  sae  sair." 

"  Away  with  you,  True  Thomas ;  only  take  heed" — and 
the  queen  shook  her  dainty  finger  warningly — "  I  can  not 
spare  any  more  mortals  of  the  Learmont  race,  after  him  that 
truly  was  well  spared,  the  great  burly  archer  of  Melrose." 

She  flitted  away,  her  elves  careering  after  her  in  merry 
whirls  on  the  grass,  nr  in  airy  eddies  like  dust-clouds  leaving 
the  coast  clear  for  Thomas  the  Rhvmer  and  hL  descendant. 

He  approached  Alice  softly,  nay  reverently ;  for  he  saw  in 
her  the  traces  of  that  earthly  suffering  which  from  himself 
had  for  centuries  passed  away.  Pensive  he  was,  but  the  faint 
shadow  on  his  brow  was  nothing  to  Alice's  utter  despair- 
She  lay  and  wept  like  one  who  would  not  be  comforted. 

He  called  her  by  her  name,  but  she  answered  not.  Then 
in  a  tone  gentle  as  a  woman,  he  said — "  My  dochter  !" 

Alice  started  up  with  a  great  cry — "Who  calls  me  thus  ? 
Oh,  mother,  mother !  have  you  come  after  me  all  the  way  to 
ihis  cruel  land]" 

But  she  saw  nothing  except  the  green  grass,  and  the  hazy 
shadowless  trees  standing  up  in  their  places,  while  underneath 
them,  as  upright  and  as  still,  stood  the  Rhymer. 

"  It  is  no  your  mither  that  speaks,"  said  he.  "It  is  my 
am  sel,  that  ye  ken  weel — your  Ancestor,  Thomas  Learmont 
of  Ercildoun,  that  mony  hundred  years  syne  wonned  away  to 
Fairyland,  and  was  never  seen  mair." 

Alice  came  nearer,  and  there  was  life  and  interest  in  her 
eyes.  "  Are  you  from  Tvveedside,  a  mortal,  and  of  my  kin  V 

"  Ye  heard  a'  that — lang  syne." 


«*>4  ALICE  LEA&MONT. 

"  I  heard,  but  heeded  not.  I  scarce  heeded  any  thin*,  till 
yesternight,  when  I  hearkened  to  my  mother.  Oh,  mother, 
mother  !  will  I  never  hear  your  voice  any  more  ?" 

"  Did  she  tell  ye  aught  concerning  me  ?"  asked  the  Rhymer, 
eagerly.  "  Or  is  my  name  clean  forgot  amang  my  ain  folk 
and  i'  the  land  I  lo'ed  sae  weel  ?" 

Alice  put  her  hand  to  her  brow.  "  Wait  till  I  think  of 
what  she  said.  Ay,  it  is  clear  now."  And  she  looked  up  in 
his  face  steadily.  "You  were  the  Knight  of  Ercildoun  ;  and 
you  left  every  thing — home,  parents,  young  wife,  and  inno- 
cent babe — to  go  with  a  beautiful  lady  into  Fairyland  for 
seven  years.  Then  you  came  back,  and  lived  as  a  good 
knight  should.  At  last  she  summoned  you — the  Queen  of 
Fairies — and  you  went  away  again — forever.  Oh!  how 
could  you  go,  having  once  come  back  to  the  dear  earth  ?" 

The  Rhymf3r  sunk  his  head,  murmuring,  "  I  canna  tell. 
It  was  to  be,  and  it  was  sae." 

"  And  how  returned  you  ?  Ah,  show  me  the  way.  Teach 
me  how  to  go  back  to  my  dear  mother  and  my  brother 
Hugh." 

She  flung  herself  at  his  feet,  embracing  them  in  her  agony 
of  entreaty. 

"Ye  ken  there's  but  ane  way,"  said  the  Rhymer,  gently: 
•'  to  bide  here  till  spring  dawns  on  the  earth;  and  at  the  time 
o'  Roodmass  the  fairies  ride.  Gin  your  mither  loe  ye  still, 
ye  may  be  saved,  Alice  Learmont.  Gie  thanks  to  her  that 
yestreen  ye  didna  tine  your  saul,"  added  he  in  an  awful 
whisper. 

Alice  looked  up,  trembling. 

"  Ye  kentna  that  while  ye  lay  saft  i'  your  mither's  arms, 
there  cam  up  that  black  road  the  Evil  Ane,  him  that  goes 
about  like  a  ramping  and  a  roaring  lion.  He  took  back  nae 
mortal,  but  an  elf,  as  the  teind  to  hell.  Ye're  safe,  my 
bairn,  gin  your  heart  fail  not,  Doryour  rnither's  luve." 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  25i 

While  the  S3er  spoke,  the  solitude  of  the  wood  where  they 
sat  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  the  fairy-troop.  Little 
heed  the  elves  took  of  the  mortals,  being  absorbed  in  their  own 
delight?.  They  came  on  with  songs  and  laughter,  and  sat 
down  to  golden  banquet-tables,  that  sprang  out  of  the  ground 
like  mushrooms.  Alice,  half  dead  with  hunger,  thirst,  and 
exhausiion,  looked  on,  but  came  not  nigh.  The  feast  ended, 
they  broke  forth  into  mad  revelries  :  music  that  allured  the 
very  soul,  and  dances  that  whoever  saw  must  needs  dance 
after — were  it  through  bush,  bramble,  or  brier. 

Alice  pressed  her  eyelids  forcibly  down  to  shut  out  the 
sight — once  so  familiar — which  she  felt  was  controlling  her 
senses,  and  luring  her  back  beyond  recall. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother  !"  she  murmured,  and  strove  to  think 
of  the  dim  cottage,  and  the  sick  bed,  and  her  who  lay  there, 
moaning  her  heart  away  for  the  loss  of  her  child.  But  still 
the  fairy  spell  was  too  strong,  and  drew  the  girl's  feet  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  enchanting  scene. 

"  Oh,  keep  me  back,"  she  cried,  turning  to  what  seemed 
her  only  stay — him  who  had  once  been  a  mortal  like  herself. 
But  still  the  words  were  words  only  ;  continually  she  moved 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  dazzling  rout. 

Thomas  the  Rhymer  looked  after  her  with  doubtful  eyes. 
"  It  maunna  be,"  said  he  thoughtfully  ;  "  a'  that  I  hae  tint, 
I  hae  tint  ;  but  this  lassie,  sae  tender  and  sae  fair — Alice 
Learmont !"  added  he,  calling  her  by  her  earthly  name,  with 
a  severe  and  firm  voice. 

The  maiden  paused,  even  though  her  feet  were  just  touch- 
ing the  magic  ring. 

"  Whar  are  ye  gaun  ?     Hae  ye  forgotten  your  mither  V 

Alice  paused,  sighed,  arid  stood  irresolute. 

"  Will  ye  be  saved  T'  said  the  Rhymer. 

"  I  can  not — I  can  not  !  their  power  is  too  strong  for  ine,' 
sobbed  Alice  ;  "  yet,  oh,  my  mother  !" 


256  ALICE  LEAUMONT. 

At  the  word,  Thomas  of  Ercildoun  drew  her  to  the  brink 
of  a  little  rivulet  that  crept  through  the  wood  ;  just  a  slender 
rill,  coming  from  the  one  river  of  earth  that  flowed  through 
Fairyland.  He  dipped  his  fingers  in  the  water,  sprinkled 
her  eyelids,  and  made  on  them  a  sign,  in  his  days  held  most 
sacred,  and  still  reverenced  as  a  memorial  of  holy  things — 
the  cross.  Then  he  bade  her  open  her  eyes  and  see. 

Alice  saw — but  oh,  with  what  changed  vision  ! 

All  the  fair  wood,  alive  with  flickering  leaves  and  waving 
plants,  had  become  a  forest  of  bare  lifeless  trees.  The  foliage 
had  dropped  off  the  boughs,  the  flowers  had  withered  where 
they  grew.  There  was  no  beauty,  no  pleasure  therein  ;  no- 
thing but  discordant  voices,  and  a  dead  blank  of  sight  and 
"ound. 

Shuddering,  Alice  ran  forward  to  seek  her  old  companions , 
ay,  any  companionship  at  all  in  the  desolate  place.  But  the 
banquet-hall  had  faded  into  ruins  ;  the  dainties  were  only  so 
many  withered  leaves  ;  the  golden  tables  nothing  but  fungi 
and  ugly  incrustations  of  blasted  trees  ;  the  gay  draperies 
around  mere  spider-webs,  flittering  to  and  fro  in  the  gusty 
wind. 

The  girl  would  have  shrieked,  but  the  same  spell  which 
had  opened  her  eyes  had  sealed  her  lips  for  the  time.  Vainly 
she  looked  round  for  Thomas  the  Rhymer  ;  he  had  disap- 
peared. She  wandered  along  the  paths  she  knew,  yet  some- 
times doubtful  of  her  way,  so  changed  was  every  thing,  until 
she  reached  the  dell  where  the  Queen  of  Fairies  kept  her 
favorite  court. 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  Alice  5"  shouted  the  elves  in  the  dis- 
tance. But  their  voices,  once  so  sweet,  now  sounded  discord- 
ant as  ravens  hooting  from  a  crumbling  tower.  And,  coming 
nearer,  the  maiden  beheld  them  clear. 

Oh,  horror  !  There  was  a  ghastly,  loathly  hag  sitting  on 
a  throne,  laughing  loudly  through  her  toothless  lips,  her  yd 


ALICE  LEARMONI.  26^ 

iow  shrunken  limbs  peering  ugly  beneath  foul  rags  that  were 
disposed  as  jauntily  as  if  they  had  been  rich  clothing.  There 
was  a  court  of  withered  worn-looking  creatures,  that  in  their 
uncomely  age  imitated  the  frolics  of  youth.  All  things  about 
them  were  pale  and  unsubstantial,  jaded,  comfortless,  and 
drear.  Yet  they  seemed  not  to  know  it,  out  m  ail  this 
wretched  guise  played  the  same  antics,  and  with  their  crack- 
ed hoarse  voices  sang  the  same  songs,  which  had  once  been 
BO  enchanting.  Every  thing  was  as  it  had  ever  been — only 
from  it  the  glamour  was  gone. 

"  Ye  see  the  truth  now,"  said  a  mournful  whisper  in  Alice's 
ear  ;  and  the  Rhymer  stood  behind  her. 

"  And  do  you  see  it  thus  I"  asked  the  shuddering  girl 

"  Maybe,  not  sae  fearsome  as  it  is  in  your  een.  For  I  am 
ane  o'  them,  and  we  maun  a'  cheat  ane  anither,  until  the 
end  ;  but  I  ken  weel  that  whate'er  it  seems,  it  is  even  sae." 

So  saying,  with  a  mechanical  footstep,  neither  hurried  nor 
slow,  he  went  into  the  magic  ring  and  lay  down  at  the  feet 
of  the  ghastly  queen — who.  under  whatever  guise  he  beheld 
her,  was  doomed  to  be  his  object  of  worship  evermore. 

But  Alice,  shrinking  away  with  terror  and  disgust,  hid 
herself  in  the  solitary  wood.  There  she  staid  for  days  and 
weeks ;  lying  on  withered  fern,  and  feeding  scantily  on  ber- 
ries that  came  from  seeds  of  earth  drifted  along  by  the  earth- 
ly rivulet.  Perpetually  there  came  by  her  portions  of  the 
elfin  shows,  which  had  once  seemed  so  pleasant,  but  wero 
now  so  foul.  She  joined  them  not ;  in  misery,  and  repent- 
ance, and  pain,  did  she  bide  her  time,  until  the  season  of  the 
Fairies'  Raid  came  round. 

One  evening,  when  she  sat  on  the  brink  of  the  stream — 
which  alone  of  all  the  sights  in  fairyland,  kept  its  freshness 
and  beauty — she  saw  drifting  by  one  of  those  branches  cover- 
ed with  soft  woolly  leaf- buds,  which,  appearing  at  Toaster,  art 
lo  this  day  called  palms. 


258  ALICE  LEARMONI. 

As  she  looked,  Thomas  of  Ercildoun,  whom  she  had  not 
seen  for  long,  appeared  at  her  side,  watching  likewise  the  lit- 
tle bough. 

•'  Alice/'  said  he,  "  ye  hae  received  your  sign.  It  is  spring 
time  on  the  bonnie  meadows  o'  Tweedside.  When  the  next 
gloaming  fa's,  it  will  be  the  Eve  o'  Roodmass." 

He  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  the  gathering  summons  stir 
red  up  all  the  dwellers  in  Fairyland.  On  they  came,  cluster- 
ing in  throngs  round  the  entrance  gate,  collecting  what  had 
once  seemed  their  gallant  nags  and  palfreys,  but  which  now 
Alic?  saw  to  be  only  hemp-stalks,  and  bean-wands,  and  with- 
01  ed  boughs  of  trees,  on  which  the  skeleton  leaves,  waving 
and  rustling,  made  what  had  appeared  the  glitter  of  golden 
housings  and  the  music  of  bridles  ringing. 

Hoarsely  resounded  the  universal  call,  for  on  this,  the  first  of 
the  two  grand  yearly  festivals,  no  one,  elfin  or  mortal,  might 
be  absent  from  the  Fairies'  Raid — except  him,  who  coming 
of  his  own  will,  had  lost  the  power  of  revisiting  earth. 

Slowly  he  followed,  lingering  until  already  the  first  of  the 
pageant  had  passed  through  the  gates,  and  Alice,  the  last  of 
all,  waited  with  eager  longings  until  she  herself  was  allowed 
to  depart.  . 

The  Rhymer  stood  watching  her  with  sorrowful  yearning. 

"  Fare-ye-weel,  Alice  ;  I  see  a'  things  clear.  Mither's 
luve  is  strong,  and  mither's  prayers  stronger.  Ye  pass  the 
gate  that  ye  will  enter  nae  mair.  Fare-ye-weel!" 

Alice  trembled  with  joy.  She  prepared  to  go  ;  bathed  her 
naked  bruised  feet  in  the  little  stream,  and  drew  round  her 
the  poor  rags  that  had  once  seemed  the  gaudy  robes  of  Elfin- 
land,  Still,  ere  she  left  she  turned  round  with  kind  tears  to 
the  Rhymer,  her  Ancestor. 

"  My  father,  can  1  do  aught  for  you  ?  Should  I  reach  safe 
the  dear  earth — our  earth — is  there  no  power — no  prayws 
that  could  avy.il  ?" 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  259 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "  Na,  ua  !  the  time  it- 
past.  Gin  I  were  ever  found  on  the  fair  earth,  it  wad  be  hut 
as  a  heap  o'  white  banes  crumbling  i'  the  kirkyardo'  Melrose. 
That  a  man  sowed,  he  sail  even  reap  :  I  maun  dree  my 
wierd,  until  the  warld's  ending.  Hereafter,  there's  Ane  that 
maun  do  as  His  mercy  wills  wi'  my  erring  saul." 

Ceasing — he  folded  his  hands  and  cast  down  his  eyes,  so 
majestic  yet  so  sad.  His  descendant  had  no  more  to  urge. 

Once  more  only  the  Rhymer  spoke,  but  in  a  low  voice,  arid 
humbly  even  as  a  mortal  penitent.  "  Alice  ae  word.  When 
a'  chances  as  it  will  chance,  gang  ye  to  the  chapel  by  Ercil 
doun,  and  look  out  for  a  gray  stane  I  raised,  aneath  the  whilk 
I  thocht  that  I  and  mine  were  to  sleep.  There'll  sure  be 
there  my  son  Thomas,  and  ane  that  was  aye  a  gude  wife  to 
me.  Alice,  say  ten  masses  for  their  sauls." 

So  said  he,  not  thinking  of  the  centuries  that  had  swept 
away  all  traces  of  the  living  and  the  dead  alike,  nor  that 
mere  tradition  kept  alive  the  name  of  Thomas  of  Ercildoun. 

Alice  made  him  little  answer,  for  she  hardly  understood 
his  meaning,  and  her  whole  heart  and  thoughts  were  flying 
earthward,  in  longing  and  in  love. 

One  by  one,  the  fairy  train  passed  out  from  the  gate,  arid 
last  of  all,  the  mortal  maiden  passed  out  likewise. 

"  Fare-ye-weel,  Alice,"  sounded  behind  her  like  a  sigh  ;  and 
looking  back,  she  saw  the  Rhymer  standing,  dimly  visible 
through  the  ragged  mould-encrusted  bars  which  had  once 
seemed  gold.  His  harp  had  fallen  on  the  ground,  his  arms  were 
folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  that  could  not  weep,  were 
bent  forward  with  the  mournfulness  of  a  yearning  never  tc 
be  fulfilled.  "  Fare  ye-weel,"  he  repeated  once  more;  then 
turned  himself,  lifted  up  his  beloved  harp,  and  went  back  foi 
ever  into  Fairyland. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IT  was  early  spring  overall  the  Border-country.  The 
gowans  in  the  pasture  fields  began  to  lift  up  their  tiny  heads, 
and  the  willows  that  grew  in  the  windings  of  the  Tweed  put 
on  downy  buds,  which  the  farmers'  children  call  "geese  and 
goslings."  A  few  young  lambs  were  tottering  in  the  folds, 
and  once  or  twice,  when  the  noon  was  very  warm  and  mild, 
a  laverock  had  been  heard  singing  high  up  in  the  still  blue 
air,  above  the  abbey-turrets  of  Melrose. 

There  was  a  woman,  very  pale  and  weak,  but  no  longer 
sick — sitting  under  the  shelter  of  the  monastery  walls.  Every 
day  when  the  weather  was  mild,  she  crawled  out  and  sat 
there,  anxious  to  gather  up  her  strength  to  the  utmost ;  arid 
so  she  had  done  for  weeks  and  months.  Very  quiet  and  com- 
posed she  was ;  full  of  that  serenity  which  is  given  by  a  firm 
purpose  deep  buried  in  the  heart.  This  purpose — so  intense 
and  resolved,  had  imparted  strength  and  health  even  to 
Marion  Learmont. 

She  sat,  a  little  way  from  the  place  where  wee  Willie's 
last  cradle  was  made  ;  lifting  her  head  to  the  warm  afternoon 
sunshine,  and  drinking  in  the  pleasant  air.  Meg  Brydon 
kept  not  far  off;  sometimes  twisting  flax  diligently — some- 
times stretching  her  lazy  length  upon  the  graves. 

There  they  remained,  hour  after  hour,  until  the  sun  began 
to  sink  behind  the  hills;  and  from  the  near  Abbey,  the  few 
remaining  monks  of  Melrose,  were  heard  chanting  their  feeble 
and  unregarded  vespers.  For  now  the  old  religion  of  the 
Stuarts  was  dying  away  in  all  the  land,  and  John  Knox's 


ALICE  LEARMOM.  2i. 

preachings  were  every  where  heard  instead  oi  matii.s  and 
evensong. 

"  Meg,"  said  Mistress  Learmont,  suddenly  calling. 

The  damsel  appeared,  from  a  gossip  at  the  abbey-gate. 

'*  It's  near  the  gloaming,"  said  Marion,  in  a  tremulous 
and  rather  excited  tone.  "  Gang  whar  ye  will,  gude  Meg; 
I'll  just  daunder  hame  my  am  sel  ;  I'm  gey  strong  the  noo. 
See !" 

She  rose,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  stout  hazel-stick,  marched 
steadily  forward  a  few  paces. 

"  Ye  needna  fash  yoursel,  lass,"  said  she  kindly,  when 
Meg,  whom  so  good  a  mistress  had  at  last  made  a  careful  and 
devoted  servant,  tried  to  assist  her  steps.  ''  Na,  na;  I'll 
e'en  gang  my  lane  :  I  maun  do't,"  she  added  in  a  whisper  to 
herself.  "  And  He  wha  had  on  earth  a  mither  o'  His  ain, 
will  guide  a  waefu'  mither  this  ae  nicht." 

She  gently  put  her  hand-maiden  aside,  and  walked  on 
alone.  Only  having  gone  a  little  way,  she  turned,  and  call- 
ed back  Meg,  saying — 

"  Gin  I'm  ower  lango'  comin',  tell  the  gudernan  he  needna 
fear.  I'll  be  about  wark  in  the  whilk  a  Greater  Ane  than 
either  husband  or  bairn  will  tak  tent  to  me,  and  see  that  I 
come  to  nae  harm.  And  Meg,"  she  added,  for  the  second 
timo  turning  back  to  give  directions.  '»Dear  Meg,  be  an 
eident  lass,  and  see  that  a'  things  are  keepit  braw  for  the 
gudeman  and  thae  wild  callants,  until  the  time  that  I  come 
hame." 

Her  words,  so  serious  and  gentle,  had  a  deeper  meaning 
than  Meg  could  fathom.  She  was  half  inclined  to  follow, 
but  something  in  her  mistress's  aspect  forbade.  She  staid 
behind,  and  Marion  Learmont  went  on  alone. 

— Past  all  her  neighbors  in  Melrose  town ;  past  house 
after  house,  where  the  old  wives  sat  knitting  or  spinning,  and 
the  children  played  in  the  gloaming,  the  mother  went.  Nc 


862  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

0ne  spoke  to  her  on  the  way  ;  it  seemed  so  strange  to  see  the 
lone  sick  woman  walking  thus,  that  many  thought  it  was 
Marion  Learmont's  wraith.  And  even  those  few  who  "be- 
lieved it  was  herself,  saw  such  a  wondrously  steadfast  and 
absorbed  expression  in  her  face,  that  they  were  afraid  to  stop 
and  address  her.  So  on  she  went,  leaning  on  her  hazel-staff, 
with  her  mantle  thrown  over  her  head  and  stooping  form  ; 
and  in  her  left  hand  nothing  but  a  little  Book,  which  during 
her  sickness  a  young  minister,  a  follower  of  John  Knox,  had 
taught  her  to  read.  She  left  the  town  soon,  and  reached  the 
open  country.  It  was  already  so  far  dusk,  that  the  sheep 
along  the  hill-side  and  in  the  fields  looked  like  white  dots 
moving  about ;  while  every  where  was  heard  the  tinkle  of  the 
bells,  and  the  whistle  of  the  shepherds  coming  home. 

Marion  distinguished  a  voice  she  knew  and  hid  herself  by 
the  dyke-side,  until  those  who  were  approaching  had  passed  by. 
It  was  her  husband  and  her  three  sons,  returning  from  their 
daily  labor  on  their  farm.  There  came  into  her  heart  a  ter- 
ror— a  longing,  lest  perchance  she  should  never  see  them  again, 
these  dear  ones — though  by  a  natural  yet  mysterious  instinct 
not  held  so  dear  as  the  one  lost,  who  by  her  must  vet  be 
saved. 

She  dared  not  speak  to  them,  lest  they  should  overrule 
her  plan  ;  but  she  watched  them  with  eager  eyes,  and  fol- 
lowed them  a  little  distance,  stealing  along  under  the  shadow 
of  the  dyke  and  of  the  rowan  trees  that  grew  beside.  She 
listened  to  their  merry  and  unconscious  voices. 
"  "Eh,"  said  Hughie.  "I  hear  a  soun'  o'  footsteps  close 
by." 

"  It's  riaething  but  a  bit  rnaukin  loupin'  out  of  a  whin-bush 
Are  ye  feared  for  the  like  o'  that1?"  answered  the  father 
laughing. 

"I'm  no  feared,  father;  but  it's  the  eve  o'  Roodmass 
when  there's  uncanny  folk  abroad,"  whispered  the  boy. 


ALICE  LEARMONT  26a 

"  Then  we'll  e'en  gae  hame,  lads,  for  the  gudewlfe's  sake 
She's  easy  fleyed,  and  she  has  aye  a  waefu'  heart  to  bear. 
We  maun  tak  tent  o'  the  puir  mither." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  echoed  the  sons,  moving  forward  bravely  arid 
quickly,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight. 

The  mother  herself  stood  by  the  road-side,  shedding  man)' 
and  mingled  tears.  But  still  her  courage  failed  not,  nor  die. 
she  shrink  from  her  purpose. 

Very  soon  she  came  to  a  place  where  four  roads  met ;  a 
spot  renowned  throughout  the  whole  neighborhood  as  being 
"  uncanny."  Tradition  had  faded  concerning  it — whether  it 
was  the  scene  of  midnight  murder,  or  of  more  harmless  elfin 
tryst e.  Or  perhaps  the  natural  ghostliness  of  the  place  added 
to  its  ill  name.  It  was  an  open  moorland,  except  where  a 
row  of  tall  firs  stood  up,  black  sentinels,  right  against  the  sky  ; 
the  wind  in  their  tops  keeping  up  a  distant  soughing  peculiar 
to  trees  of  that  species.  There  is  not  a  more  eerie  sound  in  na- 
ture, than  the  breeze  passing  through  the  high  dark  branches 
of  *  fir- wood. 

Marion  leant  against  one  of  the  stems,  exhausted,  but  not 
afraid.  The  gloaming  was  fast  melting  into  night;  the 
gloomy,  cloudy  night  of  early  spring,  when  after  the  brief 
hour  of  sunset  all  things  frequently  seem  passing  again  into 
dreariness  and  winter  cold.  The  lonely  woman  began  to 
shiver  where  she  stood  ;  and  a  heavy  rain-cloud  gathering 
over  the  moor,  fell  down  in  showers,  drenching  her  even 
through  her  close  mantle.  All  the  moor  vanished  in  haze  ; 
there  was  neither  star  nor  moon.  She  could  discern  nothing 
except  the  near  trees,  which  in  the  mistiness  around  often- 
times seemed  to  stir  and  change  their  places,  like  great  giant? 
walking  about  in  the  night. 

And  yet — even  yet — the  mother  was  riot  afraid. 

She  had  waited  a  long  time ;  so  long  that  she  could  have 
thought  the  night  almost  past,  except  that  she  knew  the 


264  ALICE   LEARMONT. 

moon  would  rise  at  midnght,  and  it  had  not  risen  yet 
Ever)  thing  was  quite  dark. 

At  length  she  saw  a  bright  light  dancing  across  the  moor 
at  the  eastern  horizon. 

"  It  is  but  the  moon-rise,"  Marion  said,  and  her  heart  grew 
colder  than  ever  with  disappointment  arid  fear.  "  Wae's 
me  !  my  hope  is  gane.  Alice,  Alice,  I  hae  tint  ye  for  ever- 
mair !" 

Thus  she,  lamenting,  hid  her  eyes  from  the  light  that  grew 
broader  and  deeper,  though  no  orb  appeared  to  rise.  When 
Marion  looked  again,  there  was  a  long  stream  of  radiance 
glittering  across  the  rnoor  ;  and  faintly  approaching  came  an- 
other music  than  that  of  the  wind  in  the  fir-tops.  It  was — 
as  a  Nithsdale  woman,  who  once  heard  the  like,  used  to  ex- 
press it — "like  the  soun'  o'  a  far  awa'  psalm." 

Marion  Learmont,  even  amidst  her  joy,  trembled  at  the 
crisis  that  was  approaching  ;  for  she  knew  that  what  she  now 
saw  and  heard  was  the  Fairies'  Ft  aid. 

She  crouched  down  behind  the  tree,  muttering  sometimes 
the  unintelligible  Aves  and  Credos  of  her  ancient  faith  ;  and 
then  again  bursting  out  into  the  heartfelt  prayers  taught  by 
John  Knox  and  his  brethren.  Alternately  she  clutched  the 
Bible,  or,  forgetting  herself,  made  the  familiar  sign  of  the  cross. 
Mingled  and  strange  were  all  her  religious  forms  ;  but  there 
was  one  thing  that  could  not  err,  the  intensity  of  devotion 
in  her  heart.  And  never  once  did  she  take  her  straining 
eyes  from  the  sight  on  which  was  concentrated  all  her  energy, 
courage,  and  hope. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  light,  and  separated  itself  into 
individual  forms.  Never  had  Marion  Learmont  seen  such  a 
glittering  show.  The  elves  rode  one  by  one,  men  and 
women  alternately.  Their  steeds,  of  all  colors,  were  capar- 
isoned with  gold  and  jewels,  that  sparkled  at  every  motion. 
They  themselves  were  as  fair  to  behold  as  when  the  young 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  264 

mother  had  seen  them  gathering  in  her  cnamber,  on  that 
fatal  night  of  Alice's  birth.  She  noticed  as  before  their  green 
kirtles,  and  their  yellow  hair,  that  while  they  rode  streamed 
behind  in  a  long  train  of  light. 

For  the  mortal  mother  beheld  the  elves  but  as  mortals  do, 
until  they  have  abode  in  Fairyland  long  enough  to  learn 
that  all  this  show  is  but  outward  glamour,  nothingness,  and 
vanity. 

The  cavalcade  nearcd  the  tree,  and  Marion  watched  in 
agony  for  the  first  that  should  pass  by.  It  was  an  elf,  tallei 
than  the  rest,  whom  she  knew  to  be  the  Queen  of  Fairies 
Afterward,  scores  upon  scores  of  elfin-horsemen  rode  near  her  ; 
but  the  mother's  eye  lingered  upon  none.  No  doubt  had  she 
in  her  search ; — through  all  that  disguise  she  could  not  mis- 
take her  own  child. 

Each  after  the  other,  the  whole  train  passed  by,  until  there 
remained  but  one — who  rode  slower  than  the  rest ;  arid 
neither  by  voice  nor  merry  gesture  urged  her  palfrey  on. 
She  sat,  amidst  all  the  brilliant  show  of  her  attire  quite 
passive  arid  silent.  Only  as  her  horse  was  sweeping  past 
the  cross-roads,  she  turned  and  leaned  sideways  showing 
distinctly  her  pale  face  and  eager  eyes.  It  was  Alice  her 
self. 

Quick  as  lightning — strong  as  though  she  had  never  been 
sick — the  mother  leaped  forward  and  dragged  her  child  down 
from  the  palfrey.  Instantly  it  melted  away,  and  lay,  a 
withered  bramble  bough,  in  the  middle  of  the  path.  A  loud 
wail  ran  across  the  moor  ; — the  fairy  pageant  vanished,  and 
all  was  perfect  silence. 

For  several  minutes  this  hush  lasted  ;  during  which  neither 
mother  nor  daughter  spoke.  Marion  was  conscious  of  nothing 
save  that  she  held  in  her  arms  her  living,  breathing  Alice. 
After  a  little  she  loosened  her  clasp,  trying  to  look  in  hei 
daughter's  face 

M 


26fi  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

"Ah,  hold  me  fast — let  me  not  go,"  murmured  the  giil,  in 
terror. 

And  even  while  she  spoke,  there  gradually  arose  across  the 
moor  a  whirlwind  of  unearthly  sounds — loud  voices,  screams, 
and  laughter.  It  came  nearer,  eddying  round  on  every  side, 
dinning  in  Marion's  ears  so  close  that  she  started,  as  though 
strange  things  were  clutching  at  her — but  nothing  was 
visible. 

"  Hold  me  fast — fast,"  was  all  Alice's  cry. 

"  I  will  haud  ye  fast,  rny  bairn  that  I  bore,"  the  mother 
answered,  firmly.  And  so  they  stood,  clinging  together  in  the 
midst  of  that  eldritch  rout,  the  more  fearful  that  it  was  only 
heard,  not  seen. 

The  blackness  of  the  night  changed  a  little,  and  the  great 
round  moon  rose  up  from  the  edge  of  the  moor.  As  soon  as 
it  gave  sufficient  light  to  distinguish  objects,  Marion  gained 
Borne  comfort.  But  her  terror  returned,  when  in  the  shadow 
cast  by  the  bole  of  the  opposite  fir  trees  she  saw  something 
leaning.  It  was  a  human  form,  the  very  image  of  herself, 
except  the  face,  which  was  hid. 

"  Turn  your  cloak,  mother,  and  it  will  vanish,"  whispered 
Alice. — "  But  oh,  do  not  let  go  your  hold  of  me." 

Marion  did  as  her  child  desired,  arid  the  illusion  melted 
away. 

This  was  the  first  of  the  elfin  spells,  through  the  tierce 
ordeal  of  which  the  mother  passed  that  night  The  next 
trial  was  far  more  horrible  to  bear. 

Suddenly,  in  her  very  arms,  the  soft  form  of  Alice  seemed 
changing  to  that  of  a  wild  beast.  "  Hold  me  close,  arid  I'll  do 
ye  no  harm,"  screamed  the  voice,  which  alone  was  human. 
And  still  the  brave  mother  held  fast  her  own,  until  again 
she  felt  the  warm  maiden-flesh  beating  against  her  bosom. 

After  that,  through  every  horror  that  elfin  malice  could 
plan,  amid$<,  transformations  uncouth,  loathsome,  or  terrible, 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  26? 

did  Marion  Learmont  keep  her  treasure  close  embraced. 
Sometimes  she  seemed  to  enfold  a  goblin  shape,  or  had  a 
slimy  serpent  crawling  on  her  breast,  or  clasped  with  her 
bare  arms  a  red-hot  bar  of  iron  ;  but  through  each  change, 
foul  or  frightful,  the  mother  knew  and  held  fast  to  her  own 
child.  Many  another  mother  through  all  human  t  'ials  has 
done  the  same  ! 

At  last  the  sky.  which  except  just  at  moon-rise  had  been 
overcast  all  night,  was  brightened  at  the  east  with  a  streak 
of  yellow  and  pale  green.  The  elfin  clamour  began  to  die 
away  in  the  dawn. 

"  Bide  a  wee,  bide  a  wee,"  sighed  the  exhausted  mother, 
as  after  the  last  transformation  her  daughter  lay  almost  like 
a  corse  in  her  arms.  "  While  I  hae  life  I  winna  tine  my 
bairn." 

Ere  she  ceased  speaking,  there  carne  a  sound  like  a  clap  ol 
thunder,  mingled  with  bowlings  that  might  have  risen  from 
the  bottomless  pit.  All  around  where  Marion  stood  was 
(lame,  and  it  was  a  living  flame  that  swayed  to  and  fro  in 
her  arms. 

"  Hae  pity  on  us,  oh  God  !"  shrieked  the  mother  aloud. 
Instantly  the  thunder  ceased,  the  jet  of  flame  sank  down, 
and  Marion  held  to  her  breast  her  young  daughter,  who  lay 
there,  pallid,  trembling,  cold — and  naked  as  w-hen  she  had 
come  into  the  world,  a  helpless  babe. 

"  Throw  your  mantle  over  me,  and  then  I  will  be  safe  and 
all  your  own,"  feebly  said  Alice. 

The  mother  did  so,  taking  off  some  of  her  own  garments 
and  wrapping  her  child  close.  Then  all  the  eldritch  sounds 
died  away  in  distance  ;  the  light  broadened  across  the  moor, 
and  all  the  earth  lay  in  the  stillness  and  freshness  of  day- 
break 

Marion  and  her  daughter  sank  down  together,  and  leaning 
igairst  the  fir  tree's  bole,  kissed  one  another  and  wept.  Sud* 


268  ALICE  LEARMONT. 

dcnly,  in  one  of  the  topmost  branches  was  heard  the  twittei 
of  a  waking  bird. 

"  It  is  a'  true,  and  ye're  my  ain — thanks  be  to  the  gr.^.c 
God  !"  cried  Marion,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  Let  us  arise,  my 
dochter,  and  gae  hame  thegither." 

Across  the  yet  dark  fields  they  took  their  way,  the  mothet 
leaning-  on  Alice's  arm.  They  passed  through  the  silent  town 
of  Melrose,  where  all  were  still  fast  asleep — tired  fathers  rest- 
ing after  their  work,  and  mothers  lying  with  their  little  children 
round.  But  there  was  never  a  mother  like  this  mother  ! 

Not  a  creature  they  met  in  all  the  street,  or  beyond  it,  un- 
til they  came  to  their  own  door.  Then,  creeping  along  the 
side  of  the  byre,  Marion  Learmont  saw  something  which 
Deemed  through  the  misty  morning-light  to  be  a  human 
form,  all  fluttering  in  gaudy-colored  rags.  And  a  cracked 
voice,  that  might  have  been  sweet  when  younjj,  and  still  had 
a  kind  of  wild  pathos,  startled  her  by  its  old  familiar  sounds, 
now  unheard  for  many  years.  It  sang  a  fragment  of  mean- 
ingless rhyme,  which  yet  had  a  certain  method  in  it : 

"  Simmer  and  winter  baith  gae  round, 

Spak  the  mither  wren  to  her  bairnies  three  ; 
Tint  was  tint,  and  found  is  found, 

I'll  hap  my  heid  saft  in  my  ain  countrie." 

"  It's  Daft  Simmie  come  back,  him  that  was  hunted  far 
and  near  for  stealing  my  bairn.  He's  at  his  sangs  again, 
Wonderfu'  are  the  ways  o'  the  Lord  !" 

And  her  thoughts  went  back  to  old  times,  remembering 
how  all  things  had  worked  together  for  good,  until  her  heart 
was  mute  for  very  thankfulness. 

As  her  feet  touched  the  doorsill,  the  sun  rose  upon  the  earth  ; 
Bhe  turned  a  minute  to  gaze  at  the  brightening  Abbey-tower 
and  the  three  summits  of  Eildon  Hill,  and  all  the  land  around, 
wakening  up  into  the  glory  of  a  new  day.  Then  she  looked 
at  Alice,  who  stood  near,  her  unearthly  beauty  chastened 


ALICE  LEARMONT.  261J 

into  that  which  was  merely  human — the  loveliness  of  love 
itself. 

"  My  ain  bairn,  my  ae  dochter !  that  was  dead  and  is 
alive  again — was  lost  and  found  !"  cried  Marion,  falling  on 
her  neck. 

She  rested  there  a  little  space,  then  took  her  daughter's 
hand,  and  with  great  joyfulness  they  two  then  went  together 
into  the  house. 


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HISTORY  OF  ANCIENT  ART.  By  Dr.  FRANZ  VON  REBER. 
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GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE.  Related  in  her  Letters  nnd  Jour- 
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COLERIDGE'S  WORKS.  The  Complete  Works  of  Samuel  Tay- 
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"  THE  FRIENDLY  EDITION  "  of  Shakespeare's  Works.  Edit- 
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HISTORY  OF  CHRISTIAN  DOCTRINE.  By  H.  C.  SHELDON, 
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ADVENTURES  IN  THE  GREAT  FOREST  of  Equatorial 
Africa  and  the  Country  of  the  Dwarfs.  By  PAUL  Du  CHAILLU. 
Abridged  and  Popular  Edition.  With  Map  and  Illustrations. 
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LIVINGSTONE'S  ZAMBESI.  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  to 
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Lakes  Shirwa  and  Nyassa,  1858  to  1864.  By  DAVID  and 
CHARLES  LIVINGSTONE.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00  ;  Sheep, 

$5  50. 

THE  LAST  JOURNALS  OF  DAVID  LIVINGSTONE  in  Cen- 
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of  his  Last  Moments,  obtained  from  his  Faithful  Servants  Chu- 
ma  and  Susi.  By  HORACE  WALLER.  With  Portrait,  Maps,  and 
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HISTORY  OF  FRIEDRICH  II.,  called  Frederick  the  Great. 
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THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  :  A  History.  Bv  THOMAS  CAR- 
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OLIVER  CROMWELL'S  LETTERS  AND  SPEECHES,  in- 
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REMINISCENCES  BY  THOMAS  CARLYLE.  Edited  by  J.  A. 
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FROUDE'S    LIFE    OF    THOMAS    CARLYLE.      PART  I.  A 

History  of  the  First  Forty  Years  of  Carlyle's  Life  (1795-1835). 
By  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDK,  M.A.  With  Portraits  and  lllus-r 
trations.  12rno,  Cloth,  $1  GO. 

PART  II.  A  History  of  Carlyle's  Life  in  London  (1834-1881). 
By  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.    Illustrated.    12ino,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  By  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE.  With  a 
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LIFE  OF  CICERO.     By  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE.     2  vols.,  12mo, 

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MARCUS  AURELIUS  ANTONINUS.  By  PAUL  BARRON  WAT- 
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A  JOURNEY  TO  ASHANGO  LAND,  and  Further  Penetration 
into  Equatorial  Africa.  By  PAUL  B.  DU  CHAILLU.  Illustrated. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

FROM  EGYPT  TO  PALESTINE.  Through  Sinai,  the  Wilder- 
ness, and  the  South  Country.  Observations  of  a  Journey  made 
with  Special  Reference  to  the  History  of  the  Israelites.  By  S. 
C.  BARTLKTT,  D.D.  Maps  and  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

THE  DRAMATIC  WORKS  OF  SHAKSPEARE.  With  Notes. 
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THE  COMMUNISTIC  SOCIETIES  OF  THE  UNITED 
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Societies.  By  CHARLES  NORDHOFF.  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth, 
$4  00. 

THE  ATMOSPHERE.    Translated  from  the  French  of  CAMILLK 
FLAMMARION.      With   10  Chromo- Lithographs  and  8G  Wood- ' 
cuts.     8vo,  Cloth,  $G  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $8  25. 

A  TEXT-BOOK  OF  CHURCH  HISTORY.  By  Dr.  JOHN 
C.  L.  GIESELER.  Revised  and  Edited  by  Rev.  HENRY  B.  SMITH, 
D.D.  Vols.  I.,  II.,  III.,  and  IV.,  8*vo,  Cloth,  $2  25  each: 
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THE    LIFE    OF    JOHN    LOCKE.     By  H.  R.  Fox   BOUUNE. 

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14  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works. 

THE  MILITAKY  OPERATIONS  OF  GENERAL  BEAURE- 
GARD  in  the  War  Between  the  States,  1861  to  1865;  including 
a  brief  Personal  Sketch,  and  a  Narrative  of  his  Services  in  the 
War  with  Mexico,  1846  to  1848.  By  ALFRED  ROMAN,  formerly 
Aide-de-Camp  on  the  Staff  of  General  Beauregard.  With  Por- 
traits, etc.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $7  CO  ;  Sheep,  $9  00 ;  Half  Mo- 
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FOLK-LORE  OF  SHAKESPEARE.  By  the  Rev.  T.  F.  THISEL- 
TON  DYER,  M.A.,  Oxon.  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  SCOTLAND:  From  the 
Earliest  to  the  Present  Time.  Comprising  Characteristic  Se- 
lections from  the  Works  of  the  more  Noteworthy  Scottish 
Poets,  with  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices.  By  JAMES 
GRANT  WILSON.  With  Portraits  on  Steel.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth, 
$10  00;  Gilt  Edges,  $11  00. 

THE  HEART  OF  AFRICA.  Three  Years'  Travels  and  Advent- 
ures in  the  Unexplored  Regions  of  the  Centre  of  Africa — from 
1868  to  1871.  By  GEORG  SCHWEINFURTH.  Translated  by  EL- 
LEN E.  FRKWER.  Illustrated.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $8  00. 

THE  HUGUENOTS:  their  Settlements,  Churches,  and  Indus- 
tries in  England  and  Ireland.  By  SAMUEL  SMILES.  With  an 
Appendix  relating  to  the  Huguenots  in  America.  Crown  8vo, 
Cloth,  $2  00. 

THE  HUGUENOTS  IN  FRANCE  after  the  Revocation  of  the 

Edict  of  Nantes;  with  a  Visit  to  the  Country  of  the  Vaudois. 
By  SAMUEL  SMILES.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

THE  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  STEl'HENSON,  and  of  his  Son,  Rob- 
ert Stephenson ;  comprising,  also,  a  History  of  the  Invention 
and  Introduction  of  the  Railway  Locomotive.  By  SAMUEL 
SMILES.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  "CHALLENGER,"  The  Atlantic: 
an  Account  of  the  General  Results  of  the  Voyage  dining  1873 
and  the  Early  Part  of  1870.  By  Sir  WTYVILLE  THOMSON, 
K.C.B.,  F.R.S.  Illustrated.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

DEXTER'S  CONGREGATIONALISM.  The  Congregational- 
ism of  the  Last  Three  Hundred  Years,  as  Seen  in  its  Liter-, 
atui-e :  with  Special  Reference  to  certain  Recondite,  Neglected, 
or  Disputed  Passages.  With  a  Bibliographical  Appendix.  By 
H.  M.  DEXTER.  Large  8vo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 


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